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THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 


SLOWLY    COCKED   THEIR   OLD-FASHIONED    GUNS. 


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3  Isle  of  Unrest  £ 

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-05  By  f*- 

•^Henry  Seton  Merriman  ^ 

^  Author  of  ^ 

•O^  "r/'^  Sowers;'  ^^IVith  Edged  Tooh^'  ''In  ^ 
'^  Kedar's  Tents,"  etc.  ^ 


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Copyright,  1899,  by 
Hugh  S.  Scott. 


P^    0 

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sstn 


TO  LUCASTA 

GOING  TO  THE  WARS 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast,  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True :  a  new  mistress  now  I  choose, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  and  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much 

Lov'd  I  not  honour  more. 

Richard  Lovelace. 


16:18448 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTKB  PAGE 

I.    The  Moving  Finger i 

II.     Chez  Clement =   .    .    12 

III.  A  By-path 23 

IV.  A  Toss-up 34 

V.    In  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi '    "    45 

VI.    Neighbours 56 

VII.    Journey's  End 67 

VIII.    At  Vasselot 78 

IX.    The  Promised  Land 89 

X.    Thus  Far 100 

XI.    By  Surprise iii 

XII.    A  Summons 122 

XIII.  War 133 

XIV.  Gossip 144 

XV.    War 154 

XVI.    A  Masterful  Man 165 

XVII.    Without  Drum  or  Trumpet 176 

XVIII.     A  Woman  of  Action 188 

XIX.    The  Search 199 

XX.     Wounded 209 

XXI.     For  France 220 

XXII.  In  the  Macquis 231 

XXIII.  An  Understanding 242 

XXIV.  "  Ce  que  Femme  Veut  " 253 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTBR  PAGB 

XXV.    On  the  Great  Road 262 

XXVI.    The  End  of  the  Journey 273 

XXVII.    The  Abbe's  Salad 284 

XXVIII.     Gold 295 

XXIX.    A  Balanced  Account 304 

XXX.    The  Beginning  and  the  End 314 


The  Isle  of  Unrest 

CHAPTEE  I 

THE   MOVING   FINGER 

"  The  Moving  Finger  writes ;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on :  nor  all  thy  piety  nor  wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  line, 
Nor  all  thy  tears  wash  out  a  word  of  it," 

The  afternoon  sun  was  lowering  toward  a  heavy 
bank  of  clouds  hanging  still  and  sullen,  over  the 
Mediterranean.  A  mistral  was  blowing.  The  last 
yellow  rays  shone  fiercely  upon  the  towering  coast 
of  Corsica,  and  the  windows  of  the  village  of  Olmeta 
glittered  like  gold. 

There  are  two  Olmetas  in  Corsica,  both  in  the 
north,  both  on  the  west  coast,  both  perched  high 
like  an  eagle's  nest,  both  looking  down  upon  those 
lashed  waters  of  the  Mediterranean,  which  are  not 
the  waters  that  poets  sing  of,  for  they  are  as  often 
white  as  they  are  blue  ;  they  are  seldom  glassy  ex- 
cept in  the  height  of  summer,  and  sailors  tell  that 
they  are  as  treacherous  as  any  waters  of  the  earth. 
Neither  aneroid  nor  weather-wisdom  may,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  tell  when  a  mistral  will  arise,  how 
it  will  bloAY,  how  veer,  how  drop  and  rise,  and  drop 

1 


2  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

again.  For  it  will  blow  one  day  beneath  a  cloud- 
less sky,  lashing  the  whole  sea  white  like  milk,  and 
blow  harder  to-morrow  under  racing  clouds. 

The  great  chestnut  trees  in  and  around  Olmeta 
groaned  and  strained  in  the  grip  of  their  lifelong 
foe.  The  small  door,  the  tiny  windows,  of  every 
house  were  rigorously  closed.  The  whole  place  had 
a  wind-swept  air  despite  the  heavy  foliage.  Even 
the  roads,  and  notably  the  broad  "  Place,"  had  been 
swept  clean  and  dustless.  And  in  the  middle  of  the 
"Place,"  between  the  fountain  and  the  church 
steps,  a  man  lay  dead  upon  his  face. 

It  is  as  well  to  state  here,  once  for  all,  that  we 
are  dealing  with  Olmeta-di-Tuda,  and  not  that  other 
Olmeta — the  virtuous,  di  Capocorso,  in  fact,  which 
would  shudder  at  the  thought  of  a  dead  man  lying 
on  its  "  Place,"  before  the  windows  of  the  very 
Mairie,  under  the  shadow  of  the  church.  For  Cap 
Corse  is  the  good  boy  of  Corsica,  where  men  think 
sorrowfully  of  the  wilder  communes  to  the  south, 
and  raise  their  eyebrows  at  the  very  mention  of 
Corte  and  Sartene — where,  at  all  events,  the  women 
have  for  husbands,  men — and  not  degenerate  Pisan 
vine-snippers. 

It  was  not  so  long  ago  either.  For  the  man 
might  have  been  alive  to-day,  though  he  would 
have  been  old  and  bent  no  doubt ;  for  he  was  a 
thick-set  man,  and  must  have  been  strong.  He  had, 
indeed,  carried  his  lead  up  from  the  road  that  runs 
by  the  Guadelle  river.  Was  he  not  to  be  traced  all 
the  way  up  the  short  cut  through  the  olive  terraces 


THE  MOVING  FINGER  3 

bj  one  bloody  footprint  at  regular  intervals  ?  You 
could  track  his  passage  across  the  "  Place,"  toward 
the  fountain  of  which  he  had  fallen  short  like  a 
poisoned  rat  that  tries  to  reach  water  and  fails. 

He  lay  quite  alone,  still  grasping  the  gun  which 
he  had  never  laid  aside  since  boyhood.  No  one 
went  to  him ;  no  one  had  attempted  to  help  him. 
He  lay  as  he  had  fallen,  with  a  thin  stream  of  blood 
running  slowly  from  one  trouser-leg.  For  this  was 
Corsican  work — that  is  to  say,  dirty  work — from 
behind  a  rock,  in  the  back,  at  close  range,  without 
warning  or  mercy,  as  honest  men  would  be 
ashamed  to  shoot  the  merest  beast  of  the  forest. 
It  was  as  likely  as  not  a  charge  of  buck-shot  low 
down  in  the  body,  leaving  the  rest  to  hemorrhage 
or  gangrene. 

All  Olmeta  knew  of  it,  and  every  man  took  care 
that  it  should  be  no  business  of  his.  Several  had 
approached,  pipe  in  mouth,  and  looked  at  the  dead 
man  without  comment ;  but  all  had  gone  away 
again,  idly,  indifferently.  For  in  this  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  islands,  human  life  is  held  cheaper 
than  in  any  land  of  Europe. 

Some  one,  it  was  understood,  had  gone  to  tell  the 
gendarmes  down  at  St,  Florent.  There  was  no 
need  to  send  and  tell  his  wife — half  a  dozen  women 
were  racing  through  the  olive  groves  to  get  the 
first  taste  of  that.  Perhaps  some  one  had  gone  to- 
ward Oletta  to  meet  the  Abbe  Susini,  whose  busi- 
ness in  a  measure  this  must  be. 

The  sun  suddenl}''  dipped  behind  the  heavy  bank 


4  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

of  clouds  and  the  mountains  darkened.  Although 
it  lies  in  the  very  centre  of  the  Mediterranean, 
Corsica  is  a  gloomy  land,  and  the  summits  of  her 
high  mountains  are  more  often  covered  than  clear. 
It  is  a  land  of  silence  and  brooding  quiet.  The 
women  are  seldom  gay ;  the  men,  in  their  heavy 
clothes  of  dark  corduroy,  have  little  to  say  for 
themselves.  Some  of  them  were  standing  now  in 
the  shadow  of  the  great  trees,  smoking  their  pipes 
in  silence,  and  looking  with  a  studied  indifference 
at  nothing.  Each  was  prepared  to  swear  before  a 
jury  at  the  Bastia  assizes  that  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  "accident,"  as  it  is  here  called,  to  Pietro 
Andrei,  and  had  not  seen  him  crawl  up  to  Olmeta 
to  die.  Indeed,  Pietro  Andrei's  death  seemed  to 
be  nobody's  business,  though  w^e  are  told  that  not 
so  much  as  a  sparrow  may  faU  unheeded. 

The  Abbe  Susini  was  coming  now — a  little  fiery 
man,  with  the  walk  of  one  who  was  slightly  bow- 
legged,  though  his  cassock  naturally  concealed  this 
defect.  He  was  small  and  not  too  broad,  with  a 
narrow  face  and  clean,  straight  features — something 
of  the  Spaniard,  something  of  the  Greek,  nothing 
Italian,  nothing  French.  In  a  word,  this  was  a 
Corsican,  which  is  to  say  that  he  was  different  from 
any  other  European  race,  and  would,  as  sure  as 
there  is  corn  in  Egypt,  be  overbearing,  masterful, 
impossible.  He  was,  of  course,  clean  shaven,  as 
brown  as  old  oak,  with  little  flashing  black  eyes. 
His  cassock  was  a  good  one,  and  his  hat,  though 
dusty,  shapely  and  new.     But  his  whole  bearing 


THE  MOVING  FINGER  5 

threw,  as  it  were,  into  the  observer's  face  the  sug- 
gestion that  the  habit  does  not  make  the  priest. 

He  came  forward  without  undue  haste,  and  dis- 
played little  surprise  and  no  horror. 

"  Quite  like  old  times,"  he  said  to  himself,  remem- 
bering the  da^'s  of  Louis  Philippe.  He  knelt  down 
beside  the  dead  man,  and  perhaps  the  attitude  re- 
minded him  of  his  calling ;  for  he  fell  to  praying, 
and  made  the  gesture  of  the  cross  over  Andrei's 
head.  Then  suddenly  he  leapt  to  his  feet,  and  shook 
his  lean  fist  out  toward  the  valley  and  St.  Florent, 
as  if  he  knew  whence  this  trouble  came. 

"  Provided  they  would  keep  their  work  in  their 
own  commune,"  he  cried,  "  instead  of  bringing  dis- 
grace on  a  parish  that  has  not  had  the  gendarmes 
this— this " 

"  Three  days,"  added  one  of  the  bystanders,  who 
had  drawn  near.  And  he  said  it  with  a  certain 
pride,  as  of  one  well  pleased  to  belong  to  a  virtuous 
community. 

But  the  priest  was  not  listening.  He  had  already 
turned  aside  in  his  quick,  jerky  way ;  for  he  was  a 
comparatively  young  man.  He  was  looking  through 
the  olives  toward  the  south. 

"It  is  the  women,"  he  said,  and  his  face  suddenly 
hardened.  He  was  impulsive,  it  appeared — quick 
to  feel  for  others,  fiery  in  his  anger,  hasty  in  his 
judgment. 

From  the  direction  in  which  he  and  the  bystand- 
ers looked,  came  the  hum  of  many  voices,  and  the 
high,  incessant  shrieks  of  one  who  seemed  demented. 


6  TPIE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

Presently  a  confused  procession  appeared  from  the 
direction  of  the  south,  hurrying  through  the  narrow- 
street  now  called  the  Rue  Carnot.  It  Avas  headed 
by  a  woman,  who  led  a  little  child,  running  and 
stumbling  as  he  ran.  At  her  heels  a  number  of 
women  hurried,  confusedly  shouting,  moaning,  and 
wailing.  The  men  stood  waiting  for  them  in  dead 
silence — a  characteristic  scene.  The  leading  woman 
seemed  to  be  superior  to  her  neighbours,  for  she 
wore  a  black  silk  handkerchief  on  her  head  instead 
of  a  white  or  coloured  cotton.  It  is  almost  a  man- 
tilla, and  marks  as  clear  a  social  distinction  in  Cor- 
sica as  does  that  head-dress  in  Spain.  She  dragged 
at  the  child,  and  scarce  turned  her  head  when  he 
fell  and  scrambled  as  best  he  could  to  his  feet.  He 
laughed  and  crowed  with  delight,  remembering  last 
year's  carnival  with  that  startling,  photographic 
memory  of  early  childhood  which  never  forgets. 

At  every  few  steps  the  woman  gave  a  shriek  as 
if  she  were  suffering  some  intermittent  agony  which 
caught  her  at  regular  intervals.  At  the  sight  of 
the  crowd  she  gave  a  quick  cry  of  despair,  and  ran 
forward,  leaving  her  child  sprawling  on  the  road. 
She  knelt  by  the  dead  man's  side  with  shriek  after 
shriek,  and  seemed  to  lose  all  control  over  herself, 
for  she  gave  way  to  those  strange  gestures  of  de- 
spair of  which  many  read  in  novels  and  a  few  in 
the  Scriptures,  and  which  come  by  instinct  to  those 
who  have  no  reading  at  all.  She  dragged  the  hand- 
kerchief from  her  head,  and  threw  it  over  her  face. 
She  beat  her  breast.     She  beat  the  very  ground 


SHE    KNELT    BY    THE    DEAD    MAN  3    SIDE. 


THE  MOVING  FINGER  7 

with  her  clenched  hands.  Her  little  boy,  having 
gathered  his  belongings  together  and  dusted  his 
cotton  frock,  now  came  forward,  and  stood  watch- 
ing her  with  his  fingers  at  his  mouth.  He  took  it 
to  be  a  game  which  he  did  not  understand ;  as  in- 
deed it  was — the  game  of  life. 

The  priest  scratched  his  chin  with  his  forefinger, 
which  was  probably  a  habit  with  him  when  puz- 
zled, and  stood  looking  down  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  eyes  at  the  ground. 

It  was  he,  however,  who  moved  first,  and,  stoop- 
ing, loosed  the  clenched  fingers  round  the  gun.  It 
was  a  double-barrelled  gun,  at  full  cock,  and  every 
man  in  the  little  crowd  assembled  carried  one  like 
it.  To  this  day,  if  one  meets  a  man,  even  in  the 
streets  of  Corte  or  Ajaccio,  who  carries  no  gun,  it 
may  be  presumed  that  it  is  only  because  he  pins 
greater  faith  on  a  revolver. 

Neither  hammer  had  fallen,  and  the  abbe  gave  a 
little  nod.  It  was,  it  seemed,  the  usual  thing  to 
make  quite  sure  before  shooting,  so  that  there  might 
be  no  unnecessary  waste  of  powder  or  risk  of  re- 
prisal. The  woman  looked  at  the  gun,  too,  and 
knew  the  meaning  of  the  raised  hammers. 

She  leapt  to  her  feet,  and  looked  round  at  the 
sullen  faces. 

"  And  some  of  you  know  who  did  it,"  she  said  ; 
"  and  you  will  help  the  murderer  when  he  goes  to 
the  macquis,  and  take  him  food,  and  tell  hhn  when 
the  gendarmes  are  hunting  him." 

She  waved  her  hand  fiercely  toward  the  moun- 


8  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

tains,  which  loomed,  range  behind  range,  dark  and 
forbidding  to  the  south,  toward  Calvi  and  Corte. 
But  the  men  only  shrugged  their  shoulders  ;  for  the 
forest  and  the  mountain  brushwood  were  no  longer 
the  refuge  they  used  to  be  in  this  the  last  year  of 
the  iron  rule  of  Napoleon  III.,  who,  whether  he 
possessed  or  not  the  Corsican  blood  that  his  foes 
deny  him,  knew,  at  all  events,  how  to  rule  Corsica 
better  than  any  man  before  or  since. 

"No,  no,"  said  the  priest,  soothingly,  "Those 
days  are  gone.  He  will  be  taken,  and  justice  will 
be  done." 

But  he  spoke  without  conviction,  almost  as  if  he 
had  no  faith  in  this  vaunted  regeneration  of  a  peo- 
ple whose  history  is  a  story  of  endless  strife — as  if 
he  could  see  with  a  prophetic  eye  thirty  years  into 
the  future,  down  to  the  present  day,  when  the  last 
state  of  that  land  is  worse  than  the  first. 

"  Justice  ! "  cried  the  woman.  "  There  is  no  jus- 
tice in  Corsica !  What  had  Pietro  done  that  he 
should  lie  there?  Only  his  duty — only  that  for 
which  he  was  jjaid.  He  was  the  Peruccas'  agent, 
and  because  he  made  the  idlers  pay  their  rent,  they 
threatened  him.  Because  he  put  up  fences,  they 
raised  their  guns  to  him.  Because  he  stopped  their 
thieving  and  their  lawlessness,  they  shoot  him.  He 
drove  their  cattle  from  the  fields  because  they  were 
Perucca's  fields,  and  he  was  paid  to  watch  his  mas- 
ter's interest.  But  Perucca  they  dare  not  touch, 
because  his  clan  is  large,  and  would  hunt  the  mur- 
derer down.     If  he  was  caught,  the  Peruccas  would 


THE  MOVING  FINGER  9 

make  sure  of  the  jury — ay !  and  of  the  judge  at 
Bastia — but  Pietro  is  not  of  Corsica;  he  has  no 
friends  and  no  clan,  so  justice  is  not  for  him." 

She  knelt  down  again  as  she  spoke  and  laid  her 
hand  on  her  dead  husband's  back,  but  she  made  no 
attempt  to  move  him.  For  although  Pietro  Andrei 
was  an  Italian,  his  wife  was  Corsican — a  woman  of 
Bonifacio,  that  grim  town  on  a  rock  so  often  be- 
sieged and  never  yet  taken  by  a  fair  fight.  She 
had  been  brought  up  in,  as  it  were,  an  atmosphere 
of  conventional  lawlessness,  and  knew  that  it  is 
well  not  to  touch  a  dead  man  till  the  gendarmes 
have  seen  him,  but  to  send  a  child  or  an  old  woman 
to  the  gendarmerie,  and  then  to  stand  aloof  and 
know  nothing,  and  feign  stupidity ;  so  that  the  offi- 
cials, when  they  arrive,  may  find  the  whole  village 
at  work  in  the  fields  or  sitting  in  their  homes,  while 
the  dead,  who  can  tell  no  tales,  has  suddenly  few 
friends  and  no  enemies. 

Then  Andrei's  widow  rose  slowly  to  her  feet. 
Her  face  was  composed  now  and  set.  She  arranged 
the  black  silk  handkerchief  on  her  head,  and  set 
her  dress  in  order.  She  was  suddenly  calm  and 
quiet. 

"  But  see,"  she  said,  looking  round  into  eyes  that 
failed  to  meet  her  own,  "  in  this  country  each  man 
must  execute  his  own  justice.  It  has  always  been 
so,  and  it  will  be  so,  so  long  as  there  are  any 
Corsicans  left.  And  if  there  is  no  man  left,  then 
the  women  must  do  it." 

She  tied  her  apron  tighter,  as  if  about  to  under- 


10  THE  ISLE  OF  UNJREST 

take  some  hard  domestic  duty,   and  brushed  the 
dust  from  her  black  dress. 

"  Come  here,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  child,  and 
lapsing  into  the  soft  dialect  of  the  south  and  east 
— "come  here,  thou  child  of  Pietro  Andrei." 

The  child  came  forward.  He  was  probably  two 
years  old,  and  understood  nothing  that  was  pass- 
ing. 

"  See  here,  you  of  Olmeta,"  she  said  composedly ; 
and,  stooping  down,  she  dipped  her  finger  in  the 
pool  of  blood  that  had  collected  in  the  dust.  "  See 
here — and  here." 

As  she  spoke  she  hastily  smeared  the  blood  over 
the  child's  face  and  dragged  him  away  from  the 
priest,  who  had  stepped  forward. 

"  'No,  no,"  he  protested.     "  Those  times  are  past." 

"  Past !  "  said  the  woman,  with  a  flash  of  f urv. 
"  All  the  country  knows  that  your  own  mother  did 
it  to  you  at  Sartene,  where  you  come  from." 

The  abbe  made  no  answer,  but,  taking  the  child 
by  the  arm,  dragged  him  gently  away  from  his 
mother.  With  his  other  hand  he  sought  in  his 
pocket  for  a  handkerchief.  But  he  was  a  lone 
man,  without  a  housekeeper,  and  the  handkerchief 
was  missing.  The  child  looked  from  one  to  the 
other,  laughing  uncertainly,  with  his  grimly 
decorated  face. 

Then  the  priest  stooped,  and  with  the  skirt  of 
his  cassock  wiped  the  child's  face. 

"  There,"  he  said  to  the  woman,  "  take  him  home, 
for  I  hear  the  gendarmes  coming." 


THE  MOVING  FINGER  n 

Indeed,  the  trotting  of  horses  and  the  clank  of 
the  long  swinging  sabres  could  be  heard  on  the 
road  below  the  village,  and  one  by  one  the  onlook- 
ers dropped  away,  leaving  the  Abbe  Susini  alone  at 
the  foot  of  the  church  steps. 


CHAPTER  II 

CHEZ   CLEMENT 
"  Gomme  on  est  heureux  quand  on  sait  ce  qu'on  veut ! " 

It  was  the  dinner  hour  at  the  Hotel  Clement  at 
Bastia  ;  and  the  event  was  of  greater  importance 
than  the  outward  appearance  of  the  house  would 
seem  to  promise.  For  there  is  no  promise  at  all 
about  the  house  on  the  left-hand  side  of  Bastia's 
one  street,  the  Boulevard  du  Palais,  which  bears,  as 
its  only  sign,  a  battered  lamp  with  the  word 
"Clement  "  printed  across  it.  The  ground  floor  is 
merely  a  rope  and  hemp  warehouse.  A  small  Corsi- 
can  donkey,  no  bigger  than  a  Newfoundland  dog, 
lives  in  the  basement,  and  passes  many  of  his  wak- 
ing hours  in  what  may  be  termed  the  entrance  hall 
of  the  hotel,  appearing  to  consider  himself  in  some 
sort  a  concierge.  The  upper  floors  of  the  huge 
Genoese  house  are  let  out  in  large  or  small  apart- 
ments to  mysterious  families,  of  which  the  younger 
members  are  always  to  be  met  carrying  jugs  care- 
fully up  and  down  the  greasy  common  staircase. 

The  first  floor  is  the  Hotel  Clement,  or,  to  be 
more  correct,  one  is  "  chez  Clement  "  on  the  first 
floor. 

"  You  stay  with  Clement,"  will  be  the  natural 

12 


CHEZ   CLEMENT  13 

remark  of  any  on  board  the  Marseilles  or  Leghorn 
steamer,  on  being  told  that  the  traveller  disembarks 
at  Bastia. 

"  We  shall  meet  to-night  chez  Clement,"  the 
officers  say  to  each  other  on  leaving  the  parade 
ground  at  four  o'clock, 

"  Dejeuner  chez  Clement,"  is  the  usual  ending  to 
a  notice  of  a  marriage,  or  a  first  communion,  in 
the  Petit  Bastiais,  that  greatest  of  all  foolscap-size 
journals. 

It  is  comforting  to  reflect,  in  these  times  of 
hurried  changes,  that  the  traveller  to  Bastia  may 
still  find  himself  chez  Clement — may  still  have  to 
kick  at  the  closed  door  of  the  first-floor  flat,  and 
find  that  door  opened  by  Clement  himself,  always 
affable,  always  gentlemanly,  with  the  same  crumbs 
strewed  carelessly  down  the  same  waistcoat,  or,  if 
it  is  evening  time,  in  his  spotless  cook's  dress.  One 
may  be  sure  of  the  same  grave  welcome,  and  the 
easy  transition  from  grave  to  gay,  the  smiling, 
grand  manner  of  conducting  the  guest  to  one  of 
those  vague  and  darksome  bedrooms,  where  the  jug 
and  the  basin  never  match,  where  the  floor  is  of 
red  tiles,  with  a  piece  of  uncertain  carpet  sliding 
hither  and  thither,  with  the  shutters  always  shut, 
and  the  mustiness  of  the  middle  ages  hanging  heavy 
in  the  air.  For  Bastia  has  not  changed,  and  never 
will.  And  it  is  not  only  to  be  fervently  hoped,  but 
seems  likely,  that  Clement  will  never  grow  old,  and 
never  die,  but  continue  to  live  and  demonstrate  the 
startling  fact  that  one  may  be  born  and  live  all 


14  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

one's  life  in  a  i*emot©,  forgotten  town,  and  still  be  a 
man  of  the  world. 

The  soup  had  been  served  precisely  at  six,  and 
the  four  artillery  officers  were  already  seated  at  the 
square  table  near  the  fireplace,  which  was  and  is 
still  exclusively  the  artillery  table.  The  other 
habitues  were  in  their  places  at  one  or  other  of  the 
half-dozen  tables  that  fill  the  room — two  gentlemen 
from  the  Prefecture,  a  civil  engineer  of  the  pro- 
jected railway  to  Corte,  a  commercial  traveller  of 
the  old  school,  and,  at  the  corner  table,  farthest 
from  the  door,  Colonel  Gilbert  of  the  Engineers. 
A  clever  man  this,  who  had  seen  service  in  the 
Crimea,  and  had  invariably  distinguished  himself 
whenever  the  opportunity  occurred ;  but  he  was 
one  of  those  who  await,  and  do  not  seek  oppor- 
tunities. Perhaps  he  had  enemies,  or,  what  is 
worse,  no  friends  ;  for  at  the  age  of  forty  he  found 
himself  appointed  to  Bastia,  one  of  the  waste  places 
of  the  War  Office,  where  an  inferior  man  would 
have  done  better. 

Colonel  Gilbert  was  a  handsome  man,  with  a  fair 
moustache,  a  high  forehead,  surmounted  by  thin, 
receding,  smooth  hair,  and  good-natured,  idle  eyes. 
He  lunched  and  dined  chez  Clement  always,  and 
was  frankly,  good  naturedly  bored  at  Bastia.  He 
hated  Corsica,  had  no  sympathy  with  the  Corsican, 
and  was  a  Northern  Frenchman  to  the  tips  of  his 
long  white  fingers. 

"  Your  Bastia,  my  good  Cl6ment,"  he  said  to  the 
host,  who  invariably  came  to  the  dining-room  with 


CHEZ   CLEMENT  15 

the  roast  and  solicited  the  opinion  of  each  guest 
upon  the  dinner  in  a  few  tactful,  easy  words — 
"  your  Bastia  is  a  sad  place." 

This  evening  Colonel  Gilbert  was  in  a  less  talk- 
ative mood  than  usual,  and  exchanged  only  a  nod 
with  his  artillery  colleagues  as  he  passed  to  his  own 
small  table.  He  opened  his  newspaper,  and  became 
interested  in  it  at  once.  It  was  several  days  old, 
and  had  come  by  way  of  Nice  and  Ajaccio  from 
Paris.  All  France  was  at  this  time  eager  for  news, 
and  every  Frenchman  studied  the  journal  of  his 
choice  with  that  uneasiness  which  seems  to  fore- 
shadow in  men's  hearts  the  approach  of  any  great 
event.  For  this  was  the  spring  of  1870,  when 
France,  under  the  hitherto  iron  rule  of  her  ad- 
venturer emperor,  suddenly  began  to  plunge  and 
rear,  while  the  nations  stood  around  her  wondering 
who  should  receive  the  first  kick.  The  emperor 
was  ill;  the  cheaper  journals  were  already  talk- 
ing of  his  funeral.  He  was  uneasy  and  restless, 
turning  those  dull  eyes  hither  and  thither  over 
Europe — a  man  of  inscrutable  face  and  deep  hidden 
plans — perhaps  the  greatest  adventurer  who  ever 
sat  a  throne.  Condemned  by  a  French  Court  of 
Peers  in  1840  to  imprisonment  for  life,  he  went  to 
Ham  with  the  quiet  question,  "  But  how  long  does 
perpetuity  last  in  France  ?  "  And  eight  years  later 
he  was  absolute  master  of  the  countrv. 

Corsica  in  particular  was  watching  events,  for 
Corsica  was  cowed.  She  had  come  under  the  rule 
of  this  despot,  and  for  the  first  time  in  her  history 


16  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

had  found  her  master.  Instead  of  being  numbered 
by  hundreds,  as  they  were  before  and  are  again 
now  at  the  end  of  the  century,  the  outlaws  hiding 
in  the  mountains  scarce  exceeded  a  score.  The 
elections  were  conducted  more  honestly  than  had 
ever  been  before,  and  the  Continental  newspapers 
spoke  hopefully  of  the  dawn  of  civilisation  showing 
itself  among  a  people  who  have  ever  been  lawless, 
have  ever  loved  war  better  than  peace. 

"  But  it  is  a  false  dawn,"  said  the  Abbe  Susini  of 
Olmeta,  himself  an  insatiable  reader  of  newspapers, 
a  keen  and  ardent  politician.  Like  the  majority  of 
Corsicans,  he  was  a  staunch  Bonapartist,  and  held 
that  the  founder  of  that  marvellous  dynasty  was 
the  greatest  man  to  walk  this  earth  since  the  days 
of  direct  Divine  inspiration. 

It  was  only  because  Napoleon  III.  was  a  Bona- 
parte that  Corsica  endured  his  tyranny ;  perhaps, 
indeed,  tyranny  and  an  iron  rule  suited  better  than 
equity  or  tolerance  a  people  descended  from  the 
most  ancient  of  the  fighting  races,  speaking  a  tongue 
wherein  occur  expressions  of  hate  and  strife  that 
are  Tuscan,  Sicilian,  Greek,  Spanish,  and  Arabic. 

Now  that  the  emperor's  hand  was  losing  its  grip 
on  the  helm,  there  were  many  in  Corsica  keenly 
alive  to  the  fact  that  any  disturbance  in  France 
would  probably  lead  to  anarchy  in  the  turbulent 
island.  There  were  even  some  who  saw  a  hidden 
motive  in  the  appointment  of  Colonel  Gilbert  as 
engineer  officer  to  a  fortified  place  that  had  no  need 
of  his  services. 


CHEZ   CLEMENT  17 

Gilbert  himself  probably  knew  that  his  appoint- 
ment had  been  made  in  pursuance  of  the  emperor's 
policy  of  road  and  rail.  For  Corsica  was  to  be 
opened  up  by  a  railway,  and  would  have  none  of 
it.  And  though  to-day  the  railway  from  Bastia  to 
Ajaccio  is  at  last  open,  the  station  at  Corte  remains 
a  fortified  place  with  a  loopholed  wall  around  it. 

But  Colonel  Gilbert  kept  his  own  counsel.  He 
sat,  indeed,  on  the  board  of  the  struggling  railway 
— a  gift  of  the  French  Government  to  a  department 
which  has  never  paid  its  way,  has  always  been  an 
open  wound.  But  he  never  spoke  there,  and  listened 
to  the  fierce  speeches  of  the  local  members  with  his 
idle,  easy  smile.  He  seemed  to  stand  aloof  from 
his  new  neighbours  and  their  insular  interests.  He 
was,  it  appeared,  a  cultured  man,  and  perhaps  found 
none  in  this  wild  island  who  could  understand  his 
thoughts.  His  attitude  toward  his  surroundings 
was,  in  a  word,  the  usual  indifferent  attitude  of  the 
Frenchman  in  exile,  reading  only  French  news- 
papers, fixing  his  attention  only  on  France,  and 
awaiting  with  such  patience  as  he  could  command 
the  moment  to  return  thither. 

"Any  news?"  asked  one  of  the  artillery  officers 
— a  sub-lieutenant  recently  attached  to  his  battery, 
a  penniless  possessor  of  an  historic  name,  who  per- 
haps had  dreams  of  craving  his  wa}^  through  to  the 
front  again. 

The  colonel  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You  may  have  the  papers  afterward,"  he  said ; 
for  it  was  not  wise  to  discuss  any  news  in  a  public 


18  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

place  at  that  time.     "  See  you  at  the  Reunion,  no 
doubt." 

And  he  did  not  speak  again  except  to  Clement, 
who  came  round  to  take  the  opinion  of  each  guest 
upon  the  fare  provided. 

"  Passable,"  said  the  colonel — "  passable,  my 
good  Clement.  But  do  you  know,  I  could  send 
you  to  prison  for  providing  this  excellent  leveret 
at  this  time  of  year.  Are  there  no  game  laws,  my 
friend?" 

But  Clement  only  laughed  and  spread  out  his 
hands,  for  Corsica  chooses  to  ignore  the  game  laws. 
And  the  colonel,  having  finished  his  coffee,  buckled 
on  his  sword,  and  went  out  into  the  twilight  streets 
of  what  was  once  the  capital  of  Corsica.  Bastia,  in- 
deed, has,  like  the  majority  of  men  and  women,  its 
history  written  on  its  face.  On  the  high  land  above 
the  old  port  stands  the  citadel,  just  as  the  Genoese 
merchant-adventurers  planned  it  five  hundred  years 
ago.  Beneath  the  citadel,  and  clustered  round  the 
port,  is  the  little  old  Genoese  town,  no  bigger  than 
a  village,  which  served  for  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years  as  capital  to  an  island  in  constant  war,  against 
which  it  had  always  to  defend  itself. 

It  would  seem  that  some  hundred  years  ago,  just 
before  the  island  became  nominally  a  French  posses- 
sion, Bastia,  for  some  reason  or  another,  took  it  into 
its  municipal  head  to  grow,  and  it  ran  as  it  were  all 
down  the  hill  to  that  which  is  now  the  new  harbour. 
It  built  two  broad  streets  of  tall  Genoese  houses,  of 
which  one  somehow  missed  fire,  and  became  a  slum, 


CHEZ   CLfiMENT  19 

while  the  other,  with  its  great  houses  but  half  in- 
habited, is  to-day  the  Boulevard  du  Palais,  where 
fashionable  Bastia  promenades  itself — when  it  is  too 
windy,  as  it  almost  always  is,  to  walk  on  the  Place 
St.  Nicholas — where  all  the  shops  are,  and  where 
the  modern  European  necessities  of  daily  life  are 
not  to  be  bought  for  love  or  money. 

There  are,  however,  two  excellent  knife-shops  in 
the  Boulevard  du  Palais,  where  every  description  of 
stiletto  may  be  purchased,  where,  indeed,  the  enter- 
prising may  buy  a  knife  which  will  not  only  go 
shrewdly  into  a  foe,  but  come  right  out  on  the 
other  side — in  front,  that  is  to  say,  for  no  true 
Corsican  is  so  foolish  as  to  stab  anywhere  but  in 
the  back — and,  protruding  thus,  will  display  some 
pleasing  legend,  such  as  "  Yendetta,"  or  "  I  serve 
my  master,"  or  "  Yiva  Corsica,"  roughly  engraved 
on  the  long  blade.  There  is  a  macaroni  warehouse. 
There  are  two  of  those  mysterious  Mediterranean 
provision  warehouses,  with  some  ancient  dried  sau- 
sages hanging  in  the  window,  and  either  doorpost 
flanked  by  a  tub  of  sardines,  highly,  and  yet,  it 
would  seem,  insufficiently,  cured.  There  is  a  tiny 
book-shop  displaying  a  choice  of  religious  pamphlets 
and  a  fly-blown  copy  of  a  treatise  on  viniculture. 
And  finally,  an  ironmonger  will  sell  you  anything 
but  a  bath,  while  he  thrives  on  a  lively  trade  in  per- 
cussion-caps and  gunpowder. 

Colonel  Gilbert  did  not  pause  to  look  at  these  be- 
wildering shop-windows,  for  the  simple  reason  that 
he  knew  every  article  there  displayed. 


20  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

He  was,  it  will  be  remembered,  a  leisurely  French- 
man, than  whom  there  are  few  human  beings  of  a 
more  easily  aroused  attention.  Any  small  street 
incident  sufficed  to  make  him  pause.  He  had  the 
air  of  one  waiting  for  a  train,  who  knows  that  it 
will  not  come  for  hours  yet.  He  strolled  down  the 
boulevard,  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  presently 
turned  to  the  right,  emerging  with  head  raised  to 
meet  the  sea-breeze  upon  that  deserted  promenade, 
the  Place  St.  Nicholas. 

Here  he  paused,  and  stood  with  his  head  slightly 
inclined  to  one  side — an  attitude  usually  considered 
to  be  indicative  of  the  artistic  temperament,  and 
admired  the  prospect.  The  "  Place  "  was  deserted, 
and  in  the  middle  the  great  statue  of  Napoleon 
stood  staring  blankly  across  the  sea  toward  Elba. 
There  is,  whether  the  artist  intended  it  or  not,  a 
look  of  stony  amazement  on  this  marble  face  as  it 
gazes  at  the  island  of  Elba  lying  pink  and  hazy  a 
few  miles  across  that  rippled  sea  j  for  on  this  side  of 
Corsica  there  is  more  peace  than  in  the  open  waters 
of  the  Gulf  of  Lyons. 

"  Surely,"  that  look  seems  to  say,  "  the  world 
could  never  expect  that  puny  island  to  hold  me." 

Colonel  Gilbert  stood  and  looked  dreamily  across 
the  sea.  It  was  plain  to  the  most  incompetent  ob- 
server that  the  statue  represented  one  class  of  men 
— those  who  make  their  opportunities  ;  while  Gil- 
bert, with  his  high  and  slightly  receding  forehead, 
his  lazy  eyes  and  good-natured  mouth,  was  a  fair 
type  of  that  other  class  which  may  take  advantage 


CHEZ   CLEMENT  21 

of  opportunities  that  offer  themselves.  The  major- 
ity of  men  have  not  even  the  pluck  to  do  that, 
which  makes  it  easy  for  mediocre  people  to  get  on 
in  this  world. 

Colonel  Gilbert  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked 
slowly  back  to  the  Eeunion  des  Officiers — the  mili- 
tary club  which  stands  on  the  Place  St.  Nicholas 
immediately  behind  the  statue  of  Napoleon — a  not 
too  lively  place  of  entertainment,  with  a  biUiard- 
room,  a  reading-room,  and  half  a  dozen  iron  tables 
and  chairs  on  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  house. 
Here  the  colonel  seated  himself,  called  for  a  liqueur, 
and  sat  watching  a  young  moon  rise  from  the  sea 
beyond  the  Islet  of  Capraja. 

It  was  the  month  of  February,  and  the  southern 
spring  was  already  in  the  air.  The  twilight  is  short 
in  these  latitudes,  and  it  was  now  nearly  night.  In 
Corsica,  as  in  Spain,  the  coolest  hour  is  between 
sunset  and  nightfall.  With  complete  darkness  there 
comes  a  warm  air  from  the  ground.  This  was  now 
beginning  to  make  itself  felt ;  but  Gilbert  had  not 
only  pavement,  but  the  whole  Place  St.  Nicholas  to 
himself.  There  are  two  reasons  why  Corsicans  do 
not  walk  abroad  at  night — the  risk  of  a  chill  and 
the  risk  of  meeting  one's  enemy. 

Colonel  Gilbert  gave  no  thought  to  these  mat- 
ters, but  sat  with  crossed  legs  and  one  spurred  heel 
thrown  out,  contentedly  waiting  as  if  for  that  train 
which  he  must  assuredly  catch,  or  for  that  oppor- 
tunity, perhaps,  which  was  so  long  in  coming  that 
he  no  longer  seemed  to  look  for  it.     And  while  he 


22  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

sat  there  a  man  came  clanking  from  the  town — a 
tired  man,  with  heavy  feet  and  the  iron  heels  of 
the  labourer.  He  passed  Colonel  Gilbert,  and  then, 
seeming  to  have  recognised  him  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  paused,  and  came  back. 

"  Monsieur  le  colonel,"  he  said,  without  raising  his 
hand  to  his  hat,  as  a  Frenchman  would  have  done. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  colonel's  pleasant  voice,  with 
no  ring  of  recognition  in  it. 

"  It  is  Mattel — the  driver  of  the  St.  Florent  dili- 
gence," explained  the  man,  who,  indeed,  carried  his 
badge  of  office,  a  long  whip. 

"  Of  course ;  but  I  recognised  you  almost  at 
once,"  said  the  colonel,  with  that  friendliness  which 
is  so  noticeable  in  the  Kepublic  to-day. 

"  You  have  seen  me  on  the  road  often  enough," 
said  the  man,  "  and  I  have  seen  you,  Monsieur  le 
Colonel,  riding  over  to  the  Casa  Perucca." 

"  Of  course." 

"  You  know  Perucca's  agent,  Pietro  Andrei  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  He  was  shot  in  the  back  on  the  Olmeta  road 
this  afternoon." 

Colonel  Gilbert  gave  a  slight  start. 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  he  said  at  length,  quietly,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  diligence-driver ;  and  without 
further  comment  he  walked  on,  keeping  well  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  as  it  is  wise  to  do  when  one 
has  enemies. 


"'MONSIEUR    1.K    COLONEL,      HE    SAID. 


CHAPTER  III 

A   BY-PATH 

"  L'intrignie  c'est  tromper  son  homme ;  I'habilete  c'est  faire  qu'il  se 
trompe  lui-naeme." 

For  an  idle-minded  man,  Colonel  Gilbert  was 
early  astir  the  next  morning,  and  rode  out  of  the 
town  soon  after  sunrise,  following  the  Yescovato 
road,  and  chatting  pleasantly  enough  with  the 
workers  already  on  foot  and  in  saddle  on  their  way 
to  the  great  plain  of  Biguglia,  Avhere  men  may  la- 
bour all  day,  though,  if  they  spend  so  much  as  one 
night  there,  must  surely  die.  For  the  eastern  coast 
of  Corsica  consists  of  a  series  of  level  plains  where 
malarial  fever  is  as  rife  as  in  any  African  swamp, 
and  the  traveller  may  ride  through  a  fertile  land 
where  eucalyptus  and  palm  grow  amid  the  vine- 
yards, and  yet  no  human  being  may  live  after  sun- 
set. The  labourer  goes  forth  to  his  work  in  the 
morning  accompanied  by  his  dog,  carrying  the  ubiq- 
uitous double-barrelled  gun  at  full  cock,  and  re- 
turns in  the  evening  to  his  mountain  village,  where, 
at  all  events,  he  may  breathe  God's  air  without  fear. 

The  colonel  turned  to  the  right  a  few  miles  out, 
following  the  road  which  leads  straight  to  that 
mountain  wall  which  divides  all  Corsica  into  the 
"near"   and  the   "far"  side — into    two    peoples, 

23 


24  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

speaking  a  different  dialect,  following  slightly  dif- 
ferent customs,  and  only  finding  themselves  united 
in  the  presence  of  a  common  foe.  The  road  mounts 
steadily,  and  this  February  morning  had  broken 
grey  and  cloudy,  so  that  the  colonel  found  himself 
in  the  mists  that  hang  over  these  mountains  during 
the  spring  months,  long  before  he  reached  the  nar- 
row entrance  to  the  grim  and  soundless  Lancone 
DejQle.  The  heavy  clouds  had  nestled  down  the 
mountains,  covering  them  like  a  huge  thickness  of 
wet  cotton- wool.  The  road,  which  is  little  more 
than  a  mule-path,  is  cut  in  the  face  of  the  rock, 
and,  far  below,  the  river  runs  musically  down  to 
Lake  Biguglia.  The  colonel  rode  alone,  though  he 
could  perceive  another  traveller  on  the  winding 
road  in  front  of  him — a  peasant  in  dark  clothes, 
w^ith  a  huge  felt  hat,  astride  on  a  little  active  Cor- 
sican  horse — sure  of  foot,  quick  and  nervous,  as 
fiery  as  the  men  of  this  strange  land. 

The  defile  is  narrow,  and  the  sun  rarely  warms 
the  river  that  runs  through  the  depths  where  the 
foot  of  man  can  never  have  trodden  since  God  fash- 
ioned this  earth.  Colonel  Gilbert,  it  would  appear, 
was  accustomed  to  solitude.  Perhaps  he  had  known 
it  so  well  during  his  sojourn  in  this  island  of  silence 
and  loneliness,  that  he  had  fallen  a  victim  to  its 
dangerous  charms,  and  being  indolent  hy  nature, 
had  discovered  that  it  is  less  trouble  to  be  alone 
than  to  cultivate  the  society  of  man.  The  Lancone 
Defile  has  to  this  day  an  evil  name.  It  is  not  wise 
to  pass  through  it  alone,  for  some  have  entered  one 


A  BY-PATH  25 

end  never  to  emerge  at  the  other.  Colonel  Gilbert 
pressed  his  heavy  charger,  and  gained  rapidly  on 
the  horseman  in  front  of  him.  When  he  was  within 
two  hundred  yards  of  him,  at  the  highest  part  of 
the  pass  and  through  the  narrow  defile,  he  sought 
in  the  inner  pocket  of  his  tunic — for  in  those  days 
French  officers  possessed  no  other  clothes  than  their 
uniform — and  produced  a  letter.  He  examined  it, 
crumpled  it  between  his  fingers,  and  rubbed  it 
across  his  dusty  knee  so  that  it  looked  old  and 
travel-stained  at  once.  Then,  with  the  letter  in  his 
hand,  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  galloped  after 
the  horseman  in  front  of  him.  The  man  turned  al- 
most at  once  in  his  saddle,  as  if  care  rode  behind 
him  there. 

"  Hi !  mon  ami,"  cried  the  colonel,  holding  the 
letter  high  above  his  head.  "  You  have,  I  imagine, 
dropped  this  letter  ?  "  he  added,  as  he  approached 
the  other,  who  now  awaited  him. 

"  Where  ?  No ;  but  I  have  dropped  no  letter. 
Where  was  it  ?     On  the  road  ?  " 

"Down  there,"  answered  the  colonel,  pointing 
back  with  his  whip,  and  handing  over  the  letter 
with  a  final  air  as  if  it  were  no  affair  of  his. 

"  Perucca,"  read  the  man,  slowly,  in  the  manner 
of  one  having  small  dealings  with  pens  and  paper, 
"  Mattel  Perucca — at  Olmeta." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  colonel,  lighting  a  cigarette.  He 
had  apparently  not  troubled  to  read  the  address  on 
the  envelope. 

In  such  a  thinly  populated  country  as  Corsica, 


26  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

faces  are  of  higher  import  than  in  crowded  cities, 
where  types  are  mingled  and  individuality  soon 
fades.  The  colonel  had  already  recognised  this  man 
as  of  Olmeta — one  of  those,  perhaps,  who  had  stood 
smoking  on  the  ''  Place  "  there  when  Pietro  Andrei 
crawled  toward  the  fountain  and  failed  to  reach  it. 

"  I  am  going  to  Olmeta,"  said  the  man,  "  and  you 
also,  perhaps." 

"  No  ;  I  am  exercising  my  horse,  as  you  see.  I 
shall  turn  to  the  left  at  the  cross-roads,  and  go  to- 
ward Murato.  I  may  come  round  by  Olmeta  later 
— if  I  lose  my  way." 

The  man  smiled  grimly.  In  Corsica  men  rarely 
laugh, 

"  You  will  not  do  that.  You  know  this  country 
too  well  for  that.  You  are  the  officer  connected 
with  the  railway.  I  have  seen  you  looking  through 
your  instruments  at  the  earth,  in  the  mountains,  in 
the  rocks,  and  down  in  the  plains — everywhere." 

"It  is  my  work,"  answered  the  colonel,  tapping 
with  his  whip  the  gold  lace  on  his  sleeve.  "  One 
must  do  what  one  is  ordered." 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders,  not  seeming  to 
think  that  necessary.  They  rode  on  in  silence, 
which  was  only  broken  from  time  to  time  by  the 
colonel,  who  asked  harmless  questions  as  to  the 
names  of  the  mountain  summits  now  appearing 
through  the  riven  clouds,  or  the  course  of  the 
rivers,  or  the  ownership  of  the  wild  and  rocky  land. 
At  the  cross-roads  they  parted. 

"  I  am  returning  to  Olmeta,"  said  the  peasant,  as 


A  BY-PATH  27 

they  neared  the  sign-post,  "and  will  send  that 
letter  up  to  the  Casa  Perucca  by  one  of  my 
children.  I  wonder  " — he  paused,  and,  taking  the 
letter  from  his  jacket  pocket,  turned  it  curiously  in 
his  hand — "  I  wonder  what  is  in  it  ?  " 

The  colonel  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned 
his  horse's  head.  It  was,  it  appeared,  no  business 
of  his  to  inquire  what  the  letter  contained,  or  to 
care  whether  it  be  delivered  or  not.  Indeed,  he 
appeared  to  have  forgotten  all  about  it. 

"Good  day,  ray  friend — good  day,"  he  said 
absent-mindedly. 

And  an  hour  later  he  rode  up  to  the  Casa  Perucca, 
having  approached  that  ancient  house  by  a  wind- 
ing path  from  the  valley  below,  instead  of  by  the 
high-road  from  the  Col  San  Stefano  to  Olmeta, 
which  runs  past  its  very  gate.  The  Casa  Perucca 
is  rather  singularly  situated,  and  commands  one  of 
the  most  wonderful  views  in  this  wild  land  of  un- 
rivalled prospects.  The  high-road  curves  round  the 
lower  slope  of  the  mountains  as  round  the  base  of  a 
sugar-loaf,  and  is  cut  at  times  out  of  the  sheer  rock, 
while  a  little  lower  it  is  begirt  by  huge  trees.  It 
forms  as  it  were  a  cornice,  perched  three  thousand 
feet  above  the  valley,  over  which  it  commands  a 
view  of  mountain  and  bay  and  inlet,  but  never  a 
house,  never  a  church,  and  the  farthest  point  is  be- 
yond Calvi,  thirty  miles  away.  There  is  but  one 
spur — a  vast  buttress  of  fertile  land  thrown  against 
the  mountain,  as  a  buttress  may  be  thrown  against 
a  church  tower. 


28  THE  ISLE  OF  UIS^REST 

The  Casa  Perucca  is  built  upon  this  spur  of  land, 
and  the  Perucca  estate — that  is  to  say,  the  land 
attached  to  the  Casa  (for  property  is  held  in  small 
tenures  in  Corsica) — is  all  that  lies  outside  the  road. 
In  the  middle  ages  the  position  would  have  been 
unrivalled,  for  it  could  be  attacked  from  one  side 
only,  and  doubtless  the  Genoese  Bank  of  St.  George 
must  have  had  bitter  reckonings  with  some  dead 
and  forgotten  rebel,  who  had  his  stronghold  where 
the  Casa  now  stands.  The  present  house  is  Italian 
in  appearance — a  long,  low,  verandahed  house, 
built  in  two  parts,  as  if  it  had  at  one  time  been  two 
houses,  and  only  connected  later  by  a  round 
tower,  now  painted  a  darker  colour  than  the  adjacent 
buildings.  There  are  occasional  country  houses  like 
it  to  be  found  in  Tuscany,  notably  on  the  heights 
behind  Fiesole. 

The  wall  defining  the  peninsula  is  ten  feet  high, 
and  is  built  actually  on  the  roadside,  so  that  the 
Casa  Perucca,  with  its  great  wooden  gate,  turns  a 
very  cold  shoulder  upon  its  poor  neighbours.  It  is, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  best  house  north  of  Calvi, 
and  the  site  of  it  one  of  the  oldest.  Its  only  rival 
is  the  Chateau  de  Yasselot,  which  stands  deserted 
down  in  the  valley  a  few  miles  to  the  south,  nearer 
to  the  sea,  and  farther  out  of  the  world,  for  no  high- 
road passes  near  it. 

Beneath  the  Casa  Perucca,  on  the  northern  slope 
of  the  shoulder,  the  ground  falls  away  rapidly  in  a 
series  of  stony  chutes,  and  to  the  south  and  west 
there  are  evidences  of  the  land  having  once  been 


A  BY-PATH  29 

laid  out  in  terraces  in  tlie  distant  days  when  Cor- 
sicans  were  content  to  till  the  most  fertile  soil  in 
Europe — always  excepting  the  Island  of  Majorca — 
but  now  in  the  wane  of  the  third  empire,  when 
every  Corsican  of  any  worth  had  found  employ- 
ment in  France,  there  were  none  to  grow  vines  or 
cultivate  the  olive.  There  is  a  short  cut  up  from 
the  valley  from  the  mouldering  Chateau  de  Vasse- 
lot,  which  is  practicable  for  a  trained  horse.  And 
Colonel  Gilbert  must  have  known  this,  for  he  had 
described  a  circle  in  the  wooded  valley  in  order  to 
gain  it.  He  must  also  have  been  to  the  Casa 
Perucca  many  times  before,  for  he  rang  the  bell 
suspended  outside  the  door  built  in  the  thickness  of 
the  southern  wall,  where  a  horseman  would  not 
have  expected  to  gain  admittance.  This  door  was, 
however,  constructed  without  steps  on  its  inner 
side,  for  Corsica  has  this  in  common  with  Spain, 
that  no  man  walks  where  he  can  ride,  so  that  steps 
are  rarely  built  where  a  gradual  slope  will  prove 
more  convenient. 

There  was  something  suggestive  of  a  siege  in  the 
way  in  which  the  door  was  cautiously  opened,  and 
a  manservant  peeped  forth. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said,  with  relief,  "  it  is  the  Colonel 
Gilbert.  Yes ;  monsieur  may  see  him,  but  no  one 
else.  Ah !  but  he  is  furious,  I  can  tell  you.  He  is 
in  the  verandah — like  a  wild  beast.  I  will  take 
monsieur's  horse." 

Colonel  Gilbert  went  through  the  palms  and  bam- 
boos and  orange-trees  alone,  toward  the  house ;  and 


30  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

there,  walking  up  and  down,  and  stopping  every 
moment  to  glance  toward  ttie  door,  of  which  the 
bell  still  sounded,  he  perceived  a  large,  stout  man, 
clad  in  light  tweed,  wearing  an  old  straw  hat  and 
carrjdng  a  thick  stick. 

"  Ah ! "  cried  Perucca,  "  so  you  have  heard  the 
news.  And  you  have  come,  I  hope,  to  apologise 
for  your  miserable  France.  It  is  thus  that  you 
govern  Corsica,  Avith  a  Civil  Service  made  up  of  a 
parcel  of  old  women  and  young  counter-jumpers  ! 
I  have  no  patience  with  your  prefectures  and  your 
3^oung  men  with  flowing  neckties  and  kid  gloves. 
Are  we  a  girls'  school  to  be  governed  thus  ?  And 
you — such  great  soldiers !  Yes,  I  will  admit  that 
the  French  are  great  soldiers,  but  you  do  not  know 
how  to  rule  Corsica.  A  tight  hand,  colonel.  Holy 
name  of  thunder  !  "  And  he  stamped  his  foot  with 
a  decisiveness  that  made  the  verandah  tremble. 

The  colonel  laughed  pleasantly. 

"  They  want  some  men  of  your  type,"  he  said. 

"  Ah  ! "  cried  Perucca,  "  I  would  rule  them,  for 
they  are  cowards  ;  they  are  afraid  of  me.  Do  you 
know,  they  had  the  impertinence  to  send  one  of 
their  threatening  letters  to  poor  Andrei  before  they 
shot  him.  They  sent  him  a  sheet  of  paper  with  a 
cross  drawn  on  it.  Then  I  knew  he  was  done  for. 
They  do  not  send  ihsit  2?our  rire." 

He  stopped  short,  and  gave  a  jerk  of  the  head. 
There  was  someAvhere  in  his  fierce  old  heart  a  cord 
that  vibrated  to  the  touch  of  these  rude  mountain 
customs ;  for  the  man  AA^as  a  Corsican  of  long  de- 


A  BY-PATH  31 

scent  and  pure  blood.  Of  such  the  fighting  nations 
have  made  good  soldiers  in  the  past,  and  even  Rome 
could  not  make  them  slaves. 

"  Or  you  could  do  it,"  went  on  Perucca,  with  a 
shrewd  nod,  looking  at  him  beneath  shaggy  brows. 
"  The  velvet  glove — eh  ?  That  would  surprise 
them,  for  they  have  never  felt  the  touch  of  one. 
You,  with  your  laugh  and  idle  ways,  and  behind 
them  the  perception — the  perception  of  the  devil — 
or  a  woman." 

The  colonel  had  drawn  forward  a  basket  chair, 
and  was  leaning  back  in  it  with  crossed  legs,  and 
one  foot  swinging. 

"  I  ?  Heaven  forbid  !  No,  my  friend  ;  I  require 
too  little.  It  is  only  the  discontented  who  get  on 
in  the  world.  But,  mind  you,  I  would  not  mind 
trying  on  a  small  scale.  I  have  often  thought  I 
should  like  to  buy  a  little  property  on  this  side  of 
the  island,  and  cultivate  it  as  they  do  up  in  Cap 
Corse.  It  would  be  an  amusement  for  my  exile, 
and  one  could  perhaps  make  the  butter  for  one's 
bread — green  Chartreuse  instead  of  yellow — eh  ?  " 

He  paused,  and  seeing  that  the  other  made  no 
reply,  continued  in  the  same  careless  strain. 

"  If  you  or  one  of  the  other  proprietors  on  this 
side  of  the  mountains  would  sell — perhaps." 

But  Perucca  shook  his  head  resolutely. 

"  No ;  we  should  not  do  that.  You,  who  have 
had  to  do  with  the  railway,  must  know  that.  We 
will  let  our  land  go  to  rack  and  ruin,  we  will  starve 
it  and  not  cultivate  it,  we  will  let  the  terraces  fall 


32  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

away  after  the  rains,  we  will  live  miserably  on  the 
finest  soil  in  Europe — we  may  starve,  but  we  won't 
sell." 

Gilbert  did  not  seem  to  be  listening  very  in- 
tently. He  was  watching  the  young  bamboos  now 
bursting  into  their  feathery  new  green,  as  they 
waved  to  and  fro  against  the  blue  sky.  His  head 
was  slightly  inclined  to  one  side,  his  eyes  were  con- 
templative. 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that  Andrei 
did  not  have  a  better  knowledge  of  the  insular  char- 
acter. He  need  not  have  been  in  01m  eta  church- 
yard now." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  rapped  out  Perucca,  with  an  em- 
phatic stick  on  the  wooden  floor,  "  that  Andrei  was 
so  gentle  with  them.  He  drove  the  cattle  off  the 
land.  I  should  have  driven  them  into  my  own  sheds, 
and  told  the  owners  to  come  and  take  them.  He 
was  too  easy-going,  too  mild  in  his  manners.  Look 
at  me — they  don't  send  me  their  threatening  letters. 
You  do  not  find  any  crosses  chalked  on  my  door — 
eh?" 

And  indeed,  as  he  stood  there,  with  his  square 
shoulders,  his  erect  bearing  and  fiery,  dark  eyes, 
Mattel  Perucca  seemed  worthy  of  the  name  of  his 
untamed  ancestors,  and  was  not  a  man  to  be  trifled 
with. 

"  Eh — what  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  servant  who  had 
approached  timorously,  bearing  a  letter  on  a  tray. 
"  For  me  ?  Something  about  Andrei,  from  those 
fools  of  gendarmes,  no  doubt." 


A  BY-PATH  33 

And  he  tore  open  the  envelope  which  Colonel 
Gilbert  had  handed  to  the  peasant  a  couple  of  hours 
earlier  in  the  Lancone  Defile.  He  fixed  his  eye- 
glasses upon  his  nose,  clumsily,  with  one  hand,  and 
then  unfolded  the  letter.  It  was  merely  a  sheet  of 
blank  paper,  with  a  cross  drawn  upon  it. 

His  face  suddenly  blazed  red  with  anger.  His 
eyes  glared  at  the  paper  through  the  glasses  placed 
crookedly  upon  his  nose. 

"  Holy  name  !  "  he  cried.  "  Look  at  this — this  to 
tne  !     The  dogs  !  " 

The  colonel  looked  at  the  paper  with  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders. 

"  You  will  have  to  sell,"  he  suggested  lightly ; 
and  glancing  up  at  Perucca's  face,  saw  something 
there  that  made  him  leap  to  his  feet.  "Hulloa.^ 
Here,"  he  said  quickly — "  sit  down." 

And  as  he  forced  Perucca  into  the  chair,  his  hands 
were  already  at  the  old  man's  collar.  And  in  five 
minutes,  in  the  presence  of  Colonel  Gilbert  and  two 
old  servants,  Mattel  Perucca  died. 


CHAPTER  TV 

A   TOSS-UP 
"  One  can  be  but  what  one  is  born." 

If  any  one  had  asked  the  Count  Lory  de  Yasselot 
Avho  and  what  he  was,  he  would  probably  have  an- 
swered that  he  was  a  member  of  the  English  Jockey 
Club.  For  he  held  that  that  distinction  conferred 
greater  honour  upon  him  than  the  accident  of  his 
birth,  which  enabled  him  to  claim  for  grandfather 
the  first  Count  de  Yasselot,  one  of  Murat's  aides-de- 
camp, a  brilliant,  dashing  cavalry  officer,  a  boy- 
hood's friend  of  the  great  Napoleon.  Lory  de  Yas- 
selot was,  moreover,  a  cavalry  officer  himself,  but 
had  not  taken  part  in  any  of  the  enterprises  of  an 
emperor  who  held  that  to  govern  Frenchmen  it  is 
necessary  to  provide  them  with  a  war  every  four 
years. 

"  Bon  Dieu  !  "  he  told  his  friends,  "  I  did  not 
sleep  for  two  nights  after  I  was  elected  to  that 
great  club." 

Lory  de  Yasselot,  moreover,  did  his  best  to  live 
up  to  his  position.  He  never,  for  instance,  had  his 
clothes  made  in  Paris.  His  very  gloves  came  from 
a  little  shop  in  Newmarket,  where  only  the  seamiest 
and  clumsiest  of  hand-coverings  are  provided,  and 
horn  buttons  are  a  sine  qua  non. 

34 


A  TOSS-UP  35 

To  desire  to  be  mistaken  for  an  Englishman  is  a 
sure  sign  that  you  belong  to  the  very  best  Parisian 
set,  and  Lory  de  Yasselot's  position  was  an  enviable 
one,  for  so  long  as  he  kept  his  hat  on  and  stood 
quite  still  and  did  not  speak,  he  might  easily  have 
been  some  one  connected  with  the  British  turf.  It 
must,  of  course,  be  understood  that  the  similitude 
of  de  Yasselot's  desire  was  only  an  outward  one. 
We  all  think  that  every  other  nation  would  fain 
be  English,  but  as  all  other  countries  have  a  like 
pitying  contempt  for  us,  there  is  perhaps  no  harm 
done.  And  it  is  to  be  presumed  that  if  some  candid 
friend  were  to  tell  de  Yasselot  that  the  moment 
he  uncovered  his  hair  or  opened  his  lips,  or  made  a 
single  movement,  he  was  hopelessly  and  unmistak- 
ably French  from  top  to  toe,  he  would  not  have 
been  sorely  distressed. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  Third  [N'apoleon 
— the  last  of  that  strange  dynasty — raised  himself 
to  the  Imperial  throne — made  himself,  indeed,  the 
most  powerful  monarch  in  Europe — by  statecraft, 
and  not  by  power  or  sword.  With  the  magic  of  his 
name  he  touched  the  heart  of  the  most  impetuous 
people  in  the  world,  and  upon  the  uncertain,  and, 
as  it  is  whispered,  not  always  honest  suffrage  of  the 
plebiscite,  climbed  to  the  unstable  height  of  des- 
potism. For  years  he  ruled  France  with  a  sort  of 
careless  cynicism,  and  it  was  only  when  his  health 
failed  that  his  hand  began  to  relax  its  grip.  In  the 
scramble  for  place  and  power,  the  grandson  of  the 
first  Count  de  Yasselot  might  easily  have  gained  a 


36  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

prize,  but  Lory  seemed  to  have  no  ambition  in  that 
direction.  Perhaps  he  had  no  taste  for  ministry  or 
bureau,  nor  cared  to  cultivate  the  subtle  knowledge 
of  court  and  cabinet,  which  meant  so  much  at  this 
time.  His  tastes  were  rather  those  of  the  camp ; 
and,  failing  war,  he  had  turned  his  thoughts  to 
sport.  He  had  hunted  in  England  and  fished  in 
Norway.  In  the  winter  of  1869,  he  went  to  Africa 
for  big  game,  and,  returning  in  the  early  weeks  of 
March,  found  France  and  his  dear  Paris  gayer,  more 
insouciant,  more  brilliant  than  ever. 

For  the  empire  had  never  seemed  more  secure 
than  it  did  at  this  moment,  had  never  stood  higher 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  had  never  boasted  so  lavish 
a  court.  Paris  was  at  her  best,  and  Lory  de  Vasse- 
lot  exclaimed  aloud,  after  the  manner  of  his  country- 
men, at  the  sight  of  the  young  buds  and  spring- 
flowers  around  the  Lac  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  as 
he  rode  there  this  fresh  morning. 

He  had  only  arrived  in  Paris  the  night  before, 
and,  dining  at  the  Cercle  Militaire,  had  accepted 
the  loan  of  a  horse. 

"  One  will  at  all  events  see  one's  friends  in  the 
wood,"  he  said.  But  riding  there  in  an  ultra- 
English  suit  of  cords  at  the  fashionable  hour,  he 
found  that  he  had  somehow  missed  the  fashion. 
The  alleys,  which  had  been  popular  a  year  ago, 
were  now  deserted  ;  for  there  is  nothing  so  fickle  as 
social  taste,  and  the  riders  were  all  at  the  other  side 
of  the  Route  de  Longchamps. 

Lory  turned  his  horse's  head  in  that  direction, 


A  TOSS-UP  37 

and  was  riding  leisurely,  when  he  heard  an  authori- 
tative voice  apparently  directed  toward  himself. 
He  was  in  one  of  the  narrow  allSes,  "  reserved  for 
cavaliers,"  and,  turning  perceived  that  the  soft 
sandy  gravel  had  prevented  his  hearing  the  ap- 
proach of  other  riders — a  man  and  a  woman.  And 
the  woman's  horse  was  beyond  control.  It  was  a 
little,  fiery  Arab,  leaping  high  in  the  air  at  each 
stride,  and  timing  a  nasty  forward  jerk  of  the  head 
at  the  worst  moment  for  its  rider's  comfort. 

There  was  no  time  to  do  anything  but  touch  his 
own  trained  charger  with  the  spur  and  gallop 
ahead.  He  turned  in  his  saddle.  The  Arab  was 
gaining  on  him,  and  gradually  leaving  behind  the 
heavy  horse  and  weighty  rider  who  were  giving 
chase.  The  woman,  with  a  set  white  face,  was 
jerking  at  the  bridle  with  her  left  hand  in  an  odd, 
mechanical,  feeble  Avay,  while  with  her  right,  she 
held  to  the  pommel  of  her  saddle.  But  she  was 
swaying  forward  in  an  unmistakable  manner.  She 
was  only  half  conscious,  and  in  a  moment  must  fall. 

Lory  glanced  behind  her,  and  saw  a  stout  built 
man,  with  a  fair  moustache  and  a  sunburnt  face, 
riding  his  great  horse  in  the  stirrups  like  a  jockey, 
his  face  alight  with  that  sudden  excitement  which 
sometimes  blazes  in  light  blue  eyes.  He  made  a 
quick  gesture,  which  said  as  plainly  as  words  — 

"  You  must  act,  and  quickl}'- ;  I  can  do  nothing." 

And  the  three  thundered  on.  The  rides  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne  are  all  bordered  on  either  side  by 
thick  trees.     If  Lory  de  Vasselot  pulled  across,  he 


38  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

would  send  the  maddened  Arab  into  the  forest, 
where  the  first  low  branch  must  of  a  necessity 
batter  in  its  rider's  head.  He  rode  on,  gradually 
edging  across  to  what  in  France  is  the  wrong  side 
of  the  road. 

"  Hold  on,  madame ;  hold  on,"  he  said,  in  a  quick 
low  voice. 

But  the  woman  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  She 
had  dropped  the  bridle  now,  and  the  Arab  had 
thrown  it  forward  over  its  head. 

Then  Lory  gradually  reined  in.  The  woman  was 
reeling  in  the  saddle  as  the  Arab  thundered  along- 
side. The  wind  blew  back  the  long  habit,  and 
showed  her  foot  to  be  firmly  in  the  stirrup. 

"  Stirrup,  madame  !  "  shouted  Lory,  as  if  she  were 
miles  away.     "  Mon  Dieu,  your  stirrup  ! " 

But  she  only  looked  ahead  with  glazed  eyes. 

Then,  edging  nearer  with  a  delicate  spur,  de 
Yasselot  shook  off  his  own  right  stirrup,  and,  lean- 
ing down,  lifted  the  fainting  woman  with  his  right 
arm  clean  out  of  the  saddle.  He  rested  her  weight 
upon  his  thigh,  and,  feeling  cautiously  with  his 
foot,  found  her  stirrup  and  kicked  it  free.  He 
pulled  up  slowly,  and,  drawing  aside,  allowed  the 
lady's  companion  to  pass  him  at  a  steady  gallop 
after  the  Arab. 

The  lady  was  now  in  a  dead  faint,  her  dark  red 
hair  hanging  like  a  rope  across  de  Vasselot's  arm. 
She  was,  fortunately,  not  a  big  woman ;  for  it  was 
no  easy  position  to  find  one's  self  in,  on  the  top, 
thus,  of  a  large  horse  with  a  senseless  burden  and 


A  TOSS-UP  39 

no  help  in  sight.  He  managed,  however,  to  dis- 
mount, and  rather  breathlessly  carried  the  lady  to 
the  shade  of  the  trees,  where  he  laid  her  with  her 
head  on  a  mound  of  rising  turf,  and,  lifting  aside  her 
hair,  saw  her  face  for  the  first  time. 

"  Ah  !  That  dear  baroness  !  "  he  exclaimed ;  and, 
turning,  he  found  himself  bowing  rather  stiffly  to 
the  gentleman,  who  had  now  returned,  leading  the 
runaway  horse.  He  was  not,  it  may  be  mentioned, 
the  baron. 

While  the  two  men  were  thus  regarding  each 
other  in  a  polite  silence,  the  baroness  opened  a  pair 
of  remarkably  bright  brown  eyes,  at  first  with 
wonder,  and  then  with  understanding,  and  finally 
with  wonder  again  when  they  lighted  on  de  Vasse- 
lot. 

"  Lory ! "  she  cried.  "  But  where  have  you 
fallen  from  ?  " 

"  It  must  have  been  from  heaven,  baroness,"  he 
replied,  "for  I  assuredly  came  at  the  right  moment." 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her — a  lithe,  neat, 
rather  small-made  man.  Then  he  turned  to  attend 
to  his  horse.  The  baroness  was  already  bus)''  with 
her  hair.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and  smoothed  her 
habit. 

"  Ah,  good  !  "  she  laughed.  "  There  is  no  harm 
done.  But  you  saved  my  life,  my  dear  Lory.  One 
cannot  have  two  opinions  as  to  that.  If  it  were 
not  that  the  colonel  is  watching  us,  I  should  em- 
brace you.  But  I  have  not  introduced  you.  This 
is  Colonel  Gilbert — my  dear  and  good  cousin,  Lory 


40  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

de  Vasselot.  The  colonel  is  from  Bastia,  by  the 
way,  and  the  Count  de  Vasselot  pretends  to  be  a 
Corsican.  I  mention  it  because  it  is  only  friendly 
to  tell  you  that  you  have  something  more  than  the 
weather  and  my  gratitude  in  common." 

She  laughed  as  she  spoke ;  then  became  suddenly 
grave,  and  sat  down  again  with  her  hand  to  her 
eyes. 

"And  I  am  going  to  faint,"  she  added,  with 
ghastly  lips  that  tried  to  smile,  "  and  nobody  but 
you  two  men." 

"  It  is  the  reaction,"  said  Colonel  Gilbert,  in  his 
soothing  way.  But  he  exchanged  a  quick  glance 
with  de  Yasselot.     "  It  will  pass,  baroness." 

"  It  is  well  to  remember  at  such  a  moment  that 
one  is  a  sportswoman,"  suggested  de  Vasselot. 

"  And  that  one  has  de  Vasselot  blood  in  one's 
veins,  you  mean.  You  may  as  well  say  it."  She 
rose  as  she  spoke,  and  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
with  a  brave  laugh.  "  Bring  me  that  horse,"  she 
said. 

De  Vasselot  conveyed  by  one  inimitable  gesture 
that  he  admired  her  spirit,  but  refused  to  obey  her. 
Colonel  Gilbert  smiled  contemplatively.  He  was 
of  a  different  school— of  that  school  of  Frenchmen 
which  owes  its  existence  to  Napoleon  III. — im- 
passive, almost  tactiturn— more  British  than  the 
typical  Briton.  De  Vasselot,  on  the  contrary,  was 
quick  and  vivacious.  His  fine-cut  face  and  dark 
eyes  expressed  a  hundred  things  that  his  tongue 
had  no  time  to  put  into  words.     He  was  hard  and 


A  TOSS-UP  41 

brown  and  sunburnt,  which  at  once  made  him 
manly  despite  his  slight  frame. 

"  Ah,"  he  cried,  with  a  gay  laugh,  "  that  is  bet- 
ter. But  seriously,  you  know,  you  should  have  a 
patent  stirrup " 

He  broke  oif,  described  the  patent  stirrup  in  three 
gestures,  how  it  opened  and  released  the  foot.  He 
showed  the  rider  falling,  the  horse  galloping  away, 
the  released  lady-rider  rising  to  her  feet  and  satis- 
fying herself  that  no  bones  were  broken — all  in 
three  more  gestures. 

"Yoila !  "  he  said ;  "  I  shall  send  you  one." 

"And  you  as  poor — as  poor,"  said  the  baroness, 
whose  husband  was  of  the  new  nobility,  which  is 
based,  as  all  the  world  knows,  on  solid  manufacture. 
"  My  friend,  you  cannot  afford  it." 

"  I  cannot  afford  to  lose  you^''  he  said,  with  a 
sudden  gravity,  and  with  eyes  which,  to  the  unin- 
itiated, Avould  undoubtedly  have  conveyed  the  im- 
pression that  she  was  the  whole  world  to  him. 
"  Besides,"  he  added,  as  an  after-thought,  "  it  is 
only  sixteen  francs." 

The  baroness  threw  up  her  gay  brown  eyes. 

"  Just  Heaven,"  she  exclaimed,  "  what  it  is  to  be 
able  to  inspire  such  affection — to  be  valued  at  six- 
teen francs ! " 

Then — for  she  was  as  quick  and  changeable  as 
himself — she  turned,  and  touched  his  arm  with  her 
thickly  gloved  hand. 

"  Seriously,  my  cousin,  I  cannot  thank  you,  and 
you,  Colonel  Gilbert,  for  your  promptness  and  your 


42  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

skill.  And  as  to  my  stupid  husband,  you  know,  he 
has  no  words  ;  when  I  tell  him,  he  will  only  grunt 
behind  his  great  moustache,  and  he  will  never  thank 
you,  and  will  never  forget.  Never !  Kemeraber 
that."  And  with  a  wave  of  the  riding-whip,  which 
was  attached  to  her  wrist,  she  described  eternity. 

De  Vasselot  turned  with  a  deprecatory  shrug  of 
the  shoulders,  and  busied  himself  with  the  girths  of 
his  saddle.  At  the  touch  and  the  sight  of  the 
buckles,  his  eyes  became  grave  and  earnest.  And 
it  is  not  only  Frenchmen  who  cherish  this  cult  of 
the  horse,  making  false  gods  of  saddle  and  bridle, 
and  a  sacred  temple  of  the  harness-room.  "Very 
seriously  de  Vasselot  shifted  the  side-saddle  from 
the  Arab  to  his  own  large  and  gentle  horse — a  wise 
old  charger  with  a  Roman  nose,  who  never  wasted 
his  mettle  in  park  tricks,  but  served  honestly  the 
Government  that  paid  his  forage. 

The  Baroness  de  Melide  watched  the  transaction 
in  respectful  silence,  for  she  too  took  le  sjport  very 
seriouslv,  and  had  attended  a  course  of  lectures  at  a 
riding-school  on  the  art  of  keeping  and  using  har- 
ness. Her  colour  was  now  returning — that  bril- 
liant, delicate  colour  which  so  often  accompanies 
dark  red  hair — and  she  gave  a  little  sigh  of  resigna- 
tion. 

Colonel  Gilbert  looked  at  her,  but  said  nothing. 
He  seemed  to  admire  her,  in  the  same  contempla- 
tive way  that  he  had  admired  the  moon  rising  be- 
hind the  island  of  Capraja  from  the  Place  St,  Nich- 
olas in  Bastia. 


A  TOSS-UP  43 

De  Yasselot  noted  the  sigh,  and  glanced  sharply 
at  her  over  the  shoulder  of  the  big  charger. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Of  the  millennium,  mon  ami." 

"  The  millennium  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  gathering  the  bridle ; 
"  when  women  shall  perhaps  be  allowed  to  be  nat- 
ural. Our  mothers  played  at  being  afraid — we 
play  at  being  courageous." 

As  she  spoke  she  placed  a  neat  foot  in  Colonel 
Gilbert's  hand,  who  lifted  her  without  effort  to  the 
saddle.  De  Vasselot  mounted  the  Arab,  and  they 
rode  slowly  homeward  by  way  of  the  Avenue  de 
Longchamps,  through  the  Porte  Dauphine,  and  up 
that  which  is  now  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
which  was  quiet  enough  at  this  time  of  day.  The 
baroness  was  inclined  to  be  silent.  She  had  been 
more  shaken  than  she  cared  to  confess  to  two  sol- 
diers. Colonel  Gilbert  probably  saw  this,  for  he 
began  to  make  conversation  with  de  Vasselot. 

"  You  do  not  come  to  Corsica,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  never  been  there — shall  never  go  there," 
answered  de  Vasselot.  "  Tell  me — is  it  not  a  ter- 
rible place  *?  The  end  of  the  world,  I  am  told.  My 
mother  " — he  broke  off  with  a  gesture  of  the  utmost 
despair.  "  She  is  dead  !  "  he  interpolated — "  al- 
ways told  me  that  it  was  the  most  terrible  place  in 
the  world.  At  my  father's  death,  more  than  thirty 
years  ago,  she  quitted  Corsica,  and  came  to  live  in 
Paris,  where  I  was  born,  and  where,  if  God  is  good, 
I  shall  die." 


44  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  My  cousin,  you  talk  too  much  of  death,"  put  in 
the  baroness,  seriously 

"  As  between  soldiers,  baroness,"  replied  de  Yas- 
selot,  gaily,  "  It  is  our  trade.  You  know  the 
island  w^ell,  colonel  ?  " 

"  No,  I  cannot  say  that.  But  I  know  the  Chateau 
de  Yasselot." 

"  Now,  that  is  interesting ;  and  I  who  scarcely 
know  the  address  !  Near  Calvi,  is  it  not  ?  A  waste 
of  rocks,  and  behind  each  rock  at  least  one  bandit 
— so  my  dear  mother  assured  me." 

"  It  might  be  cultivated,"  answered  Colonel  Gil- 
bert, indifferently.  "  It  might  be  made  to  yield  a 
small  return.  I  have  often  thought  so.  I  have 
even  thought  of  whiling  away  my  exile  by  attempt- 
ing some  such  scheme.  I  once  contemplated  buy- 
ing a  piece  of  land  on  that  coast  to  try.  Perhaps 
you  would  sell  ?  " 

"  Sell !  "  laughed  de  Yasselot.  "  No  ;  I  am  not 
such  a  scoundrel  as  that.  I  would  toss  you  for  it, 
my  dear  colonel ;  I  would  toss  vou  for  it,  if  you 
like." 

And  as  they  turned  out  of  the  avenue  into  one  of 
the  palatial  streets  that  run  toward  the  Avenue 
Yictor  Hugo,  he  made  the  gesture  of  throwing  a 
coin  into  the  air. 


CHAPTER  Y 

IN   THE   RUE   DU   CHERCHE-MIDI 

"  II  ne  faut  jamais  se  laisser  trop  voir,  meme  a  ceux  qui  nous  aiment." 

It  was  not  very  definitely  known  what  Made- 
moiselle Brun  taught  in  the  School  of  Our  Lady  of 
the  Sacred  Heart  in  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  in 
Paris.  For  it  is  to  be  feared  that  Mademoiselle 
Brun  knew  nothing  except  the  world;  and  it  is 
precisely  that  form  of  knowledge  which  is  least 
cultivated  in  a  convent  school. 

"  She  has  had  a  romance,"  whispered  her  bright- 
eyed  charges,  and  lapsed  into  suppressed  giggles  at 
the  mere  mention  of  such  a  word  in  connection  with 
a  little  woman  dressed  in  rusty  black,  with  thin 
grey  hair,  a  thin  grey  face,  and  a  yellow  neck. 

It  would  seem,  however,  that  there  is  a  point 
where  even  a  mother-superior  must  come  down,  as 
it  were,  into  the  market-place  and  meet  the  world. 
That  point  is  where  the  convent  purse  rattles  thinly 
and  the  mother-superior  must  face  hunger.  It  had, 
in  fact,  been  intimated  to  the  conductors  of  the 
School  of  the  Sisterhood  of  the  Sacred  Heart  by  the 
ladies  of  the  quarter  of  St.  Germain,  that  the  con- 
vent teaching  taught  too  little  of  one  world  and 
too  much  of  another.  And  the  mother-superior, 
being  a  sensible  woman,  agreed  to  engage  a  certain 

45 


46  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

number  of  teachers  from  the  outer  world.  Made- 
moiselle Brun  was  vaguely  entitled  an  instructress, 
while  Mademoiselle  Denise  Lange  bore  the  proud 
title  of  mathematical  mistress. 

Mademoiselle  Brun,  with  her  compressed  mouth, 
her  wrinkled  face,  and  her  cold  hazel  eyes,  accepted 
the  situation,  as  we  have  to  accept  most  situations 
in  this  world,  merely  because  there  is  no  choice. 

"  What  can  you  teach  ? "  asked  the  soft-eyed 
mother-superior. 

"  Anything,"  replied  Mademoiselle  Brun,  with  a 
direct  gaze,  which  somehow  cowed  the  nun. 

"  She  has  had  a  romance,"  whispered  some  wag 
of  fourteen,  when  Mademoiselle  Brun  first  appeared 
in  the  schoolroom ;  and  that  became  the  accepted 
legend  regarding  her. 

"What  are  you  saying  of  me?"  she  asked  one 
day,  when  her  rather  sudden  appearance  caused  si- 
lence at  a  moment  when  silence  was  not  compul- 
sory. 

"  That  you  once  had  a  romance,  mademoiselle," 
answered  some  daring  girl. 

"Ah!" 

And  perhaps  the  dusky  wrinkles  lapsed  into  gen- 
tler lines,  for  some  one  had  the  audacity  to  touch 
mademoiselle's  hand  with  a  bird-like  tap  of  one 
finger. 

"  And  you  must  tell  it  to  us." 

For  there  were  no  nuns  present,  and  mademoi- 
selle was  suspected  of  having  a  fine  contempt  for 
the  most  stringent  of  the  convent  laws. 


IN  THE  RUE  DU  CHERCHE-MIDI      47 

"Ko." 

"  But  why  not,  mademoiselle  ?  '* 

"  Because  the  real  romances  are  never  told,"  re- 
plied Mademoiselle  Brun. 

But  that  was  only  her  way,  perhaps,  of  conceal- 
ing the  fact  that  there  was  nothing  to  tell.  She 
spoke  in  a  low  voice,  for  her  class  shared  the  long 
schoolroom  this  afternoon  with  the  mathematical 
class.  The  room  did  not  lend  itself  to  description, 
for  it  had  bare  walls  and  two  long  windows  looking 
down  disconsolately  upon  a  courtyard,  where  a  grey 
cat  sunned  herself  in  the  daytime  and  bewailed  her 
lot  at  night.  "Who,  indeed,  would  be  a  convent 
cat? 

At  the  far  end  of  the  long  room  Mademoiselle 
Denise  Lange  was  superintending,  with  an  earnest 
face,  the  studies  of  five  young  ladies.  It  was  only 
necessary  to  look  at  the  respective  heads  of  the 
pupils  to  conclude  that  these  young  persons  were 
engaged  in  mathematical  problems,  for  there  is 
nothing  so  discomposing  to  the  hair  as  arithmetic. 
Mademoiselle  Lange  herself  seemed  no  more  capable 
of  steering  a  course  through  a  double  equation  than 
her  pupils,  for  she  was  young  and  pretty,  with 
laughing  lips  and  fair  hair,  now  somewhat  ruffled 
by  her  calculations.  When,  however,  she  looked 
up,  it  might  have  been  perceived  that  her  glance 
was  clear  and  penetrating. 

There  was  no  more  popular  person  in  the  Con- 
vent of  the  Sacred  Heart  than  Denise  Lange,  and  in 
no  walk  of  life  is  personal  attractiveness  so  much 


48  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

appreciated  as  in  a  girls'  school.  It  is  only  later  in 
life  that  ces  demoiselles  begin  to  find  that  their 
neighbour's  beauty  is  but  skin  deep.  The  nuns — 
"  fond  fools,"  Mademoiselle  Brun  called  them — con- 
cluded that  because  Deuise  was  pretty  she  must  be 
good.  The  girls  loved  Denise  with  a  wild  and  ex- 
ceedingly ephemeral  affection,  because  she  was  little 
more  than  a  girl  herself,  and  was,  like  themselves, 
liable  to  moments  of  deep  arithmetical  despondency. 
Mademoiselle  Brun  admitted  that  she  was  fond  of 
Denise  because  she  was  her  second  cousin,  and  that 
was  all. 

When  worldly  mammas,  essentially  of  the  second 
empire,  who  perhaps  had  doubts  respecting  a  purely 
conventual  education,  made  inquiries  on  this  sub- 
ject, the  mother-superior,  feeling  very  wicked  and 
worldly,  usually  made  mention  of  the  mathematical 
mistress,  Denise  Lange,  daughter  of  the  great  and 
good  general  who  was  killed  at  Solferino.  And  no 
other  word  of  identification  was  needed.  For  some 
keen-witted  artist  had  painted  a  great  salon  picture 
of,  not  a  young  paladin,  but  a  fat  old  soldier,  eight- 
een stone,  on  his  huge  charger,  with  shaking  red 
cheeks  and  blazing  eyes,  standing  in  his  stirrups, 
bursting  out  of  his  tight  tunic,  and  roaring  to  his 
enfants  to  follow  him  to  their  death. 

It  was  after  the  battle  of  Solferino  that  Made- 
moiselle Brun  had  come  into  Denise  Lange's  life, 
taking  her  from  her  convent  school  to  live  in  a 
dull  little  apartment  in  the  Rue  des  Saints  Peres, 
educating  her,  dressing  her,  caring  for  her  with  a 


IN  THE  EUE  DU  CHEECHE-MIDI      49 

grim  affection  which  never  wasted  itself  in  words. 
How  she  pinched  and  saved,  and  taught  herself 
that  she  might  teach  others ;  how  she  triumphantly 
made  both  ends  meet, — are  secrets  which,  like 
Mademoiselle  Brun's  romance,  she  would  not  tell. 
For  French  women  are  not  only  cleverer  and  more 
capable  than  French  men,  but  they  are  cleverer  and 
more  capable  than  any  other  women  in  the  world. 
History,  moreover,  will  prove  this ;  for  nearly  all 
the  great  women  that  the  world  has  seen  have  been 
produced  by  France. 

Denise  and  Mademoiselle  Brun  still  lived  in  the 
dull  little  apartment  in  the  Kue  des  Saints  Peres — 
that  narrow  street  which  runs  southward  from  the 
Quai  Voltaire  to  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain,  where 
the  cheap  frame-makers,  the  artists'  colourmen,  and 
the  dealers  in  old  prints  have  their  shops.  To  the 
convent  school,  the  old  woman  and  the  young  girl, 
Avalking  daily  through  the  streets  to  their  work, 
brought  with  them  that  breath  of  worldliness  which 
the  advance  of  civilisation  seemed  to  render  desir- 
able to  the  curriculum  of  a  girls'  school. 

"  It  must  be  heavenly,  mademoiselle,  to  walk  in 
the  streets  quite  alone,"  said  one  of  Mademoiselle 
Brun's  pupils  to  her  one  day. 

"  It  is,"  was  the  reply ;  "  especially  near  the 
gutter." 

But  this  afternoon  there  was  no  conversation,  for 
the  literature  class  knew  that  Mademoiselle  Brun 
was  in  a  contrary  humour. 

"  She  is  looking  at  that  dear  Denise  with  discon- 


50  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

tented  eyes.  She  is  in  a  shocking  temper,"  had 
been  the  whispered  warning  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

And  in  truth  Mademoiselle  Brun  constantly 
glanced  down  the  length  of  the  schoolroom  to 
where  Denise  Avas  sitting.  But  a  seeing  eye  could 
well  perceive  that  it  was  not  with  Denise,  but  with 
the  schoolroom,  that  the  little  old  woman  was  dis- 
contented. Perhaps  she  had  at  times  a  cruel  thought 
that  the  Eue  des  Saints  P^res,  emphasised  as  it  were 
by  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi,  was  hardly  gay  for  a 
young  life.  Perhaps  the  soft  touch  of  spring  that 
was  in  the  March  air  stirred  up  restless  longings  in 
the  soul  of  this  little  grey  town-mouse. 

And  while  she  was  watching  Denise,  the  cross- 
grained  old  nun  who  acted  as  concierge  to  this  quiet 
house  came  into  the  room,  and  handed  Denise  a 
long  blue  envelope. 

"It  is  addressed  in  a  man's  handwriting,"  she 
said  warningly. 

"  Then  let  us  by  all  means  send  for  the  tongs," 
answered  Denise,  taking  the  letter  with  a  mock  air 
of  alarm. 

But  she  looked  at  it  curiously,  and  glanced 
toward  Mademoiselle  Brun  before  she  opened  it. 
It  was  perhaps  characteristic  of  the  little  old 
schoolmistress  to  show  no  interest  whatever.  And 
yet  to  her  it  probably  seemed  an  age  before  Denise 
came  toward  her,  carrying  the  letter  in  her  out- 
stretched hand. 

"  At  first,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  thought  it  was  a 
joke — a  trick  of  one  of  the  girls.     But  it  is  serious 


IN  THE  KUE  DU  CHEKCHE-MIDI       51 

enough.  It  is  a  romance  inside  a  blue  envelope — 
that  is  all." 

She  gave  a  joyous  laugh,  and  threw  the  letter 
down  on  Mademoiselle  Brun's  knees. 

"  It  is  my  father's  cousin,  Mattel  Perucca,  who 
has  died  suddenly,  and  has  left  me  an  estate  in 
Corsica,"  she  continued,  impatiently  opening  the 
letter,  which  Mademoiselle  Brun  fingered  with 
pessimistic  distrust.  "  See  here !  that  is  the  address 
of  my  estate  in  Corsica,  where  I  shall  invite  you  to 
stay  with  me — I,  who  stand  before  you  in  my  old 
black  alpaca,  and  would  borrow  a  hairpin  if  you 
can  spare  it." 

Her  hands  were  busy  with  her  hair  as  she  spoke  ; 
and  she  seemed  to  touch  life  and  its  entanglements 
as  lightly.  Mademoiselle  Brun,  however,  read  the 
letter  very  gravely.  For  she  was  a  wise  old  French- 
woman, who  knew  that  it  is  only  bad  news  which 
may  safely  be  accepted  as  true. 

The  letter,  which  was  accompanied  by  an  enclo- 
sure, was  from  a  Marseilles  solicitor,  and  began  by 
inquiring  as  to  the  identity  of  Mademoiselle  Denise 
Lange,  instructress  at  the  convent  school  in  the 
Kue  du  Cherche-Midi,  with  the  daughter  of  the  late 
General  Lange,  who  met  his  death  on  the  field  of 
Solferino.  It  then  proceeded  to  explain  that  Denise 
Lange  had  inherited  the  property  known  as  the 
Perucca  property,  in  the  commune  of  Calvi,  in  the 
Island  of  Corsica.  Followed  a  schedule  of  the  said 
property,  which  included  the  historic  chateau, 
known   as  the   Casa  Perucca.     The  solicitor  con- 


52  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

eluded  with  a  word  for  himself,  after  the  manner 
of  his  kind,  and  clearly  demonstrated  that  no  other 
lawyer  was  so  capable  as  he  to  arrange  the  affairs 
of  Mademoiselle  Denise  Lange. 

"  Jean  Jacques  Moreau,"  read  Mademoiselle  Brun, 
with  some  scorn,  the  signature  of  the  Marseilles 
notary.  "An  imbecile,  your  Jean  Jacques — an 
imbecile,  like  his  great  and  mischievous  namesake. 
He  does  not  say  of  what  malady  your  second 
cousin  died,  or  what  income  the  property  will  yield 
— if  anj^" 

"  But  we  can  ask  him  those  particulars." 

"  And  pay  for  each  answer,"  retorted  Mademoi- 
selle Brun,  folding  the  letter  reflectively. 

She  was  remembering  that  a  few  minutes  earlier 
she  had  been  thinking  that  their  present  existence 
was  too  narrow  for  Denise  ;  and  now,  in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye,  life  seemed  to  be  opening  out  and 
spreading  with  a  rapidity  which  only  the  thoughts 
of  youth  could  follow  and  the  energy  of  spring  keep 
pace  with. 

"  Then  we  will  go  to  Marseilles  and  ask  the 
questions  ourselves,  and  then  he  cannot  charge  for 
each  answer,  for  I  know  he  could  never  keep 
count." 

But  Mademoiselle  Brun  only  looked  grave,  and 
would  not  rise  to  Denise's  lighter  humour.  It  al- 
most seemed,  indeed,  as  if  she  were  afraid — she 
who  had  never  known  fear  through  all  the  years  of 
pinch  and  struggle,  who  had  faced  a  world  that  had 
no  use  for  her,  that  would  not  buy  the  poor  serv- 


m  THE  RUE  DU  CHERCHE-MIDI       53 

ices  she  had  to  sell.  For  to  know  the  worst  is 
always  a  relief,  and  to  exchange  it  for  something 
better  is  like  exchanging  an  old  coat  for  a  new  one. 

"  And  in  the  mean  time "  said  Mademoiselle 

Brun,  turning  sharply  upon  her  pupils,  who  had 
taken  the  opportunity  of  abandoning  French  litera- 
ture. 

"  In  the  mean  time,"  said  Denise,  turning  reluc- 
tantly away — "  in  the  mean  time,  I  am  filling  a  vat 
of  so  many  cubic  metres,  from  a  well  so  many 
metres  deep,  with  a  pail  containing  four  litres,  and 
of  course  the  pail  has  a  leak  in  it,  and  the  well  be- 
comes deeper  as  one  draws  from  it,  and  the  Casa 
Perucca  is,  I  suppose,  a  dream," 

She  went  back  to  her  work,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments was  quite  absorbed  in  it.  And  it  was  Ma- 
demoiselle Brun  who  could  not  settle  to  her  French 
literature,  nor  compose  her  thoughts  at  all.  For 
change  is  the  natural  desire  of  youth,  and  the  be- 
lief that  it  must  be  for  the  better,  part  and  parcel 
of  the  astounding  optimism  of  that  state  of  life. 

A  few  minutes  later  Denise  remembered  the  en- 
closure— a  letter  in  a  thick  white  envelope,  which 
was  still  lying  on  her  desk.     She  opened  it. 

"  Mademoiselle  "  (the  letter  ran), 

"  I  think  I  have  the  pleasure  of  addressing 
the  daughter  of  an  old  comrade-in-arms,  and  this 
must  be  my  excuse  for  at  once  approaching  my  ob- 
ject. I  hear  by  accident  that  you  have  inherited 
from  the  late  Mattel  Perucca  his  small  property 
near  Olmeta  in  Corsica.     I  knew  Mattel  Perucca, 


54  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

and  the  property  you  inherit  is  not  unknown  to  one 
who  has  had  official  dealings  with  landowners  in 
Corsica.  I  tell  you  frankly  that  it  would  be  im- 
possible, in  the  present  disturbed  state  of  the  island, 
for  you  to  live  at  Olmeta,  and  I  ask  you  as  frankly 
whether  you  are  disposed  to  sell  me  your  small 
estate.  I  have  long  cherished  the  scheme  of  buy- 
ing a  small  parcel  of  land  in  Corsica  for  the  purpose 
of  showing  the  natives  that  agriculture  may  be 
made  profitable  in  so  fertile  an  island,  by  dint  of 
industry  and  a  firm  and  unswerving  honesty.  The 
Perucca  property  would  suit  my  purpose.  You 
may  be  doing  a  good  action  in  handing  over  your 
tenants  to  one  who  understands  the  Corsican  na- 
ture. I,  in  addition  to  relieving  the  monotony  of 
my  present  exile  at  Bastia,  may  perhaps  be  in- 
augurating a  happier  state  of  affairs  in  this  most 
unfortunate  country. 

"Awaiting  your  answer,  I  am,  mademoiselle, 
"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  Louis  Gilbert  (Colonel)." 


The  school  bell  rang  as  Denise  finished  reading 
the  letter.     The  class  was  over. 

"We  shall  descend  into  the  well  again  to- 
morrow," she  said,  closing  her  books. 

The  girls  trooped  out  into  the  forlorn  courtyard, 
leaving  Mademoiselle  Brun  and  Denise  alone  in  the 
schoolroom.  Mademoiselle  Brun  read  the  second 
letter  with  a  silent  concentration.  She  glanced  up 
when  she  had  finished  it. 

"  Of  course  you  will  sell,"  she  said. 

Denise  was  looking  out  of  the  tall  closed  windows 
at  the  few  yards  of  sky  that  were  visible  above  the 


IN  THE  RUE  DU  CHERCHE-MIDI      55 

roofs.  Some  fleecy  clouds  were  speeding  across  the 
clear  ether. 

"  No,"  she  answered  slowly  ;  "  I  think  I  shall  go 
to  Corsica.  Tell  me,"  she  added,  after  a  pause — "  I 
suppose  I  have  Corsican  blood  in  my  veins  ?  " 

"I  suppose  so,"  admitted  Mademoiselle  Brun, 
reluctantly. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NEIGHBOURS 

"  Chaque  homme  a  trois  caracteres :  celui  qu'il  a,  celui  qu'il  montre, 
el  celui  qu'il  croit  avoir." 

By  one  of  the  strokes  of  good  fortune  which 
come  but  once  to  the  most  ardent  student  of  fash- 
ion, the  Baroness  de  Melide  had  taken  up  horsiness 
at  the  very  beginning  of  that  estimable  craze.  It 
was,  therefore,  in  mere  sequence  to  this  pursuit  that 
she  fixed  her  abode  on  the  south  side  of  the  Champs 
Elysees,  and  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  Avenue 
du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  before  the  world  found  out 
that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  live  elsewhere.  It 
is  so  difficult,  in  truth,  to  foretell  the  course  of  fash- 
ion, that  one  cannot  help  wondering  why  the  mod- 
ern soothsayers,  who  eke  out  what  appears  to  be  a 
miserable  existence  in  the  smaller  streets  of  the 
Faubourg  St.  Honore  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Bond  Street,  do  not  turn  their  second-sight  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  future  of  streets  and  districts, 
instead  of  telling  the  curious  a  number  of  vague 
facts  respecting  their  past  and  vaguer  prophecies  as 
to  the  future. 

If,  for  instance,  Cagliostro  had  foretold  that  to- 
day the  Chausee  d'Antin  would  be  deserted ;  that 
the  faubourg  would  have  completely  ousted  the 

56 


NEIGHBOURS  67 

Rue  St.  Honore ;  that  the  Avenue  de  la  Grande 
Armee  should  be,  fashionably  speaking,  dead  after 
a  short  and  brilliant  life ;  and  that  the  little  streets 
of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  should  be  all  that  is 
most  chic — what  fortunes  might  have  been  made ! 
Indeed,  no  one  in  a  trance  or  in  his  right  mind  can 
tell  to-day  why  it  is  right  to  walk  on  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  and  the  Boulevard 
des  Capucines,  and  heinously  wrong  to  walk  on  the 
left ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  no  self-respecting  Pa- 
risian would  allow  himself  to  be  seen  on  the  right- 
hand  pavement  of  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine. 
Indeed,  these  things  are  a  mystery,  and  the  wise 
seek  only  to  obey,  and  not  to  ask  the  reason  why. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  lay  before  the  English 
reader  the  precise  social  position  of  the  Baroness  de 
Melide.  For  there  are  wheels  within  wheels,  or, 
more  properly  perhaps,  shades  within  shades,  in  the 
social  world  of  Paris,  which  are  quite  unsuspected 
on  this  side  of  the  Channel.  Indeed,  our  ignorance 
of  social  France  is  only  surpassed  by  the  French  ig- 
norance of  social  England.  The  Baroness  de  Melide 
was  rich,  however,  and  the  rich,  as  we  all  know, 
have  nothing  to  fear  in  this  world.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  Monsieur  de  Melide  dated  his  nobility  from 
Napoleon's  creation,  and  madame's  grandfather  was 
of  the  Emigration.  By  conviction, 'they  belonged 
to  the  Anglophile  school,  and  theirs  was  one  of  the 
prettiest  little  houses  between  the  Avenue  Yictor 
Hugo  and  the  Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  which 
is  more  important  than  ancestors. 


58  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

It  was  to  this  miniature  palace  that  Mademoiselle 
Brun  and  Denise  were  bidden,  to  the  new  function 
of  afternoon  tea,  the  day  after  the  receipt  of  the 
lawyer's  letter.  Madame  de  Mfelide  would  take  no 
denial. 

"  I  have  already  heard  of  Denise's  good  fortune  ; 
and  from  whom  do  you  think  ?  "  she  wrote.  "  From 
my  dear  good  cousin.  Lory  de  Vasselot,  who  is,  if 
you  will  believe  it,  a  Corsican  neighbour — the  Vas- 
selot and  Perucca  estates  actually  adjoin.  Both,  I 
need  hardly  tell  you,  bristle  with  bandits,  and  are 
quite  impossible.  But  I  have  quite  decided  that 
Lory  shall  marry  Denise.  Come,  therefore,  with- 
out fail.  I  need  not  tell  you  to  see  that  Denise  looks 
pretty.  The  good  God  has  seen  to  that  for  you. 
And  as  for  Lory,  he  is  an  angel.  I  cannot  think 
why  I  did  not  marry  him  myself — except  that  he 
did  not  ask  me.  And  then  there  is  my  stupid, 
whom  nobody  else  would  have,  and  who  now  sends 
his  dear  love  to  his  oldest  friend. — Your  devoted 
Jane." 

The  Baroness  de  Melide  was  called  Jeanne,  but 
she  had  enthusiastically  changed  that  name  for  its 
English  version  at  the  period  when  England  was, 
as  it  were,  first  discovered  by  social  France. 

When  Mademoiselle  Brun  and  Denise  arrived, 
they  found  the  Baroness  beautifully  dressed  as 
usual,  and  very  French,  for  the  empress  was  at  this 
time  the  leader  of  the  world's  women,  as  the  em- 
peror— that  clever  parvenu — was  undoubtedly  the 
first  monarch  in  Europe.     It  behoves  not  a  mascu- 


NEIGHBOUKS  59 

line  pen  to  attempt  a  description  of  Madame  de 
Melide's  costume,  which,  moreover,  was  of  a  bygone 
mode,  and  nothing  is  so  unsightly  in  death  as  a  de- 
ceased fashion. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come !  "  she  cried,  embracing 
both  ladies  in  turn,  with  a  fervour  which  certainly 
seemed  to  imply  that  she  had  no  other  friends  on 
earth. 

In  truth,  she  had,  for  the  moment,  none  so  dear ; 
for  there  are  certain  warm  hearts  that  are  happy  in 
always  loving,  not  the  highest,  but  the  nearest, 

"  Let  me  see,  now,"  she  added,  vigorously  drag- 
ging forward  chairs.  "  I  asked  some  one  to  meet 
you — some  one  I  particularly  wanted  you  to  become 
acquainted  with,  but  I  cannot  remember  who  it  is." 
As  she  spoke  she  consulted  a  little  red  morocco  befc- 
ting-book. 

"  Lory ! "  she  cried,  after  a  short  search.  "  Yes,  of 
course  it  was  Lory  de  Yasselot — my  cousin.  And 
— will  you  believe  it  ? — he  saved  my  life  the  other 
day,  all  in  a  moment !  Yes !  I  saw  death,  quite 
close,  before  my  eyes.  Ugh !  And  I,  who  am  so 
wicked  !  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  wicked 
and  to  know  it,  Denise — you  who  are  so  young. 
But  that  dear  Mademoiselle  Brun,  she  knows." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  mademoiselle. 

"  And  Lory  saved  me,  ah  !  so  cleverly.  There  is 
no  better  horseman  in  the  army,  they  say.  Yes ; 
he  will  certainly  come  this  afternoon,  unless  there 
is  a  race  at  Longchamps.  Now,  is  there  a  race,  I 
wonder  ?  " 


60  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

"  For  the  moment,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun,  very 
gravely,  "  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  She  is  laughing  at  me,"  cried  the  baroness, 
shaking  a  vivacious  forefinger  at  Mademoiselle 
Brun.  "  But  I  do  not  mind ;  we  cannot  all  be  wise 
—eh  ?  " 

"  And  what  a  dull  world  for  the  rest  of  us  if  you 
were,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun  ;  and  Lory  de  Vas- 
selot,  coming  into  the  room  at  this  moment,  was  met 
by  her  sour  smile. 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  the  baroness,  "  here  he  is.  I  pre- 
sent you,  my  dear  Lory,  to  Mademoiselle  Brun,  a 
terrible  friend  of  mine,  and  to  Mademoiselle  Lange, 
who,  as  you  know,  has  just  inherited  the  other  half 
of  Corsica." 

"My  congratulations,"  answered  Lory,  shaking 
hands  with  Denise  in  the  English  fashion.  "  An  in- 
heritance is  so  nice  when  it  is  quite  new." 

"  And  figure  to  yourself  that  this  dear  child  has 
no  notion  how  it  has  all  come  about !  She  only 
knows  the  bare  fact  that  some  one  is  dead,  and  she 
has  gained — well,  a  white  elephant,  one  may  sup- 
pose." 

De  Vasselot's  quick  face  suddenly  turned  grave. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  then  I  can  tell  you  how  it  has 
all  come  about.  Though  I  confess  at  once  that  I 
have  never  been  to  Corsica,  and  have  never  found 
myself  a  halfpenny  the  richer  for  owning  land 
there." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  glanced  at  Made- 
moiselle Brun. 


NEIGHBOURS  61 

"Unless,"  he  interpolated,  "such  personal  mat- 
ters will  bore  mademoiselle." 

"  But  mademoiselle  is  the  good  angel  of  Made- 
moiselle Lange,  my  dear,  dull  Lory,"  explained  the 
baroness ;  and  the  object  of  the  elucidation  looked 
at  him  more  keenly  than  so  trifling  an  incident 
would  seem  to  warrant. 

"  You  will  not  be  betraying  secrets  to  the  first- 
comer,"  she  said. 

Still  de  Vasselot  seemed  to  hesitate,  as  if  choos- 
ing his  words. 

"  And,"  he  said  at  length,  "  they  shot  your 
cousin's  agent  in  the  back,  almost  in  the  streets  of 
Olmeta,  and  Mattel  Perucca  himself  died  suddenly, 
presumably  from  apoplexy,  brought  on  by  great 
anger  at  receiving  a  letter  threatening  his  life — 
that  is  how  it  has  come  about,  mademoiselle." 

He  broke  off  short,  with  a  quick  gesture  and  a 
flash  of  his  eyes,  usually  so  pleasant  and  smiling. 

"I  have  that  from  a  reliable  source,"  he  went 
on,  after  a  pause,  during  which  Mademoiselle  Brun 
looked  steadily  at  Denise  and  said  nothing. 

"  Gracious  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  the  baroness,  in 
a  whisper ;  and  for  once  was  silenced. 

"  A  faithful  correspondent  on  the  island,"  ex- 
plained de  Yasselot.  "  Though  why  he  is  faithful 
I  cannot  tell  ^''ou.  Some  family  legend,  perhaps — 
I  cannot  tell.  It  is  the  Abbe  Susini  of  Olmeta  who 
has  told  me  this.  He  it  was  who  told  me  of  your — 
well,  I  can  only  call  it  your  misfortune,  made- 
moiselle.     For    there    is   assuredly   a   curse   upon 


62  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

Corsica  as  there  is  upon  Ireland.  It  cannot  govern 
itself,  and  no  other  can  govern  it.  The  Napoleons 
have  been  the  only  men  to  make  anything  of  the 
island,  but  a  man  who  is  driving  a  pair  of  horses 
down  the  Champs  Elysees  cannot  give  much  thought 
to  his  little  dog  that  runs  behind.  And  it  is  in  the 
Bonaparte  blood  to  drive,  not  only  a  pair,  but  a 
four-in-hand  in  the  thickest  traffic  of  the  world. 
The  Abbe  Susini  tells  me  that  when  the  emperor's 
hand  was  firm,  Corsica  was  almost  orderly,  justice 
was  almost  administered,  banditism  was  for  the  mo- 
ment made  to  feel  the  hand  of  the  law,  and  the 
authorities  could  count  the  number  of  outlaws 
evading  their  grip  in  the  mountains.  But  since  the 
emperor's  illness  has  taken  a  dangerous  turn  things 
have  gone  back  again.  Corsica  is,  it  seems,  a 
weather-glass  by  which  one  may  tell  the  state  of 
the  political  weather  in  France ;  and  now  it  is  dis- 
turbed, mademoiselle." 

He  had  become  graver  as  he  spoke,  and  now 
found  himself  addressing  Denise  almost  as  if  she 
were  a  man.  There  is  as  much  difference  in  listen- 
ers as  there  is  in  talkers.  And  Lory  de  Yasselot, 
who  belonged  to  the  new  school  of  Frenchmen — 
the  open-air,  the  vigorous,  the  sportsmanlike — found 
his  interlocutor  listening  w^th  clear  eyes  fixed 
frankly  on  his  face.  Intelligence  betrays  itself  in 
listening  more  than  in  talking,  and  de  Yasselot, 
with  characteristic  and  an  eminentlv  national  intui- 
tion,  perceived  that  this  girl  from  a  convent  school 
in  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  was  not  a  person  to 


NEIGHBOURS  63 

whom  to  address  drawing-room  generalities,  and 
those  insults  to  the  feminine  comprehension  which 
a  bygone  generation  called  compliments. 

"  But  a  woman  need  surely  have  nothing  to  fear," 
said  Denise,  Avho  had  the  habit  of  carrjing  her  head 
rather  high,  and  now  spoke  as  if  this  implied  more 
than  a  mere  trick  of  deportment. 

"  A  woman !  You  are  not  going  to  Corsica, 
mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  But  I  am,"  she  answered. 

De  Vasselot  turned  thoughtfully,  and  brought 
forward  a  chair.  He  sat  down  and  gravely  con- 
templated Mademoiselle  Brun,  whose  attitude — up- 
right in  a  low  chair,  with  crossed  hands  and  a  com- 
pressed mouth — betrayed  nothing.  A  Frenchman 
is  not  nearly  so  artificial  as  the  shallow  British  ob- 
server has  been  pleased  to  conclude.  He  is,  in  fact, 
much  more  a  child  of  nature  than  either  an  Ens:- 
lishman  or  a  German.  Lory  de  Vasselot's  expres- 
sion said  as  plainly  as  words  to  Mademoiselle 
Brun  — 

"  And  what  have  you  been  about  ?  " 

It  was  so  obvious  that  Mademoiselle  Brun,  al- 
most imperceptibly,  shrugged  one  shoulder.  She 
was  powerless,  it  appeared. 

"  But,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so,"  said 
Lory,  sitting  down  and  drawing  near  to  Denise  in 
his  earnestness,  "  that  is  impossible.  I  will  not 
trouble  you  with  details,  but  it  is  an  impossibility. 
I  understand  that  Mattel  Perucca  and  his  agent 
were  the  two  strongest  men  in  the  northern  dis- 


U  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

trict,  and  they  only  attempted  to  hold  their  own, 
nothing  more.     With  the  result  that  you  know." 

"  But  there  are  many  ways  of  attempting  to  hold 
one's  own,"  persisted  Denise ;  and  she  shook  her 
head  with  a  wisdom  which  only  belongs  to  youth. 

De  Yasselot  spread  out  his  hands  in  utter  despair. 
The  end  of  the  world,  it  seemed,  was  at  hand.  And 
Penise  only  laughed. 

"  And  when  I  have  regulated  my  own  affairs,  I 
will  undertake  the  management  of  your  estate  at  a 
high  salary,"  she  said. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,"  said  Lory, 
gravely,  "  and  I  have  done  it  myself.  I  have  aban- 
doned the  idea  for  ever  receiving  a  halfpenny  of 
rent.  I  have  allowed  the  land  to  go  out  of  culti- 
vation. The  vine-terraces  are  falling,  the  olive 
trees  are  dying  for  want  of  cultivation.  A  fcAV 
peasants  graze  their  cattle  in  my  garden,  I  under- 
stand. The  house  itself  is  only  saved  from  falling 
down  by  the  fact  that  it  is  strongly  built  of  stone. 
I  would  sell  for  a  mere  song,  if  I  could  find  a  seri- 
ous offer  of  that  trifle  ;  but  nobody  buys  land  in 
Corsica — for  the  peasants  recognise  no  title  deeds 
and  respect  no  rights  of  ownership.  I  had  indeed 
an  offer  the  other  day,  but  it  was  undoubtedly  a 
joke,  and  I  treated  it  as  such." 

"  Denise  also  has  had  an  offer  to  buy  the  Perucca 
property,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"  Yes,"  said  Denise,  seeing  his  surprise.  "  And 
you  would  advise  me  to  accept  it  ?  " 

"  If  it  is  a  serious  one,  most  decidedly." 


NEIGHBOUKS  65 

^'  It  is  serious  enough,"  answered  Denise.  "  It  is 
from  a  Colonel  Gilbert,  an  officer  stationed  at 
Bastia." 

"  Ah  ! "  he  exclaimed ;  and  at  that  moment  an- 
other caller  entered  the  room,  and  he  rose  with 
eager  politeness. 

So  it  happened  that  Mademoiselle  Brun  could  not 
see  his  face,  and  was  left  wondering  what  the  ex- 
clamation meant. 

Several  other  callers  now  appeared — persons  of 
the  Baroness  de  Melide's  own  world,  who  had  a 
hundred  society  tricks,  and  bowed  or  shook  hands 
according  to  the  latest  mode.  This  was  not  Ma- 
demoiselle Brun's  world,  and  she  was  not  interested 
to  hear  the  latest  gossip  from  that  hotbed  of  scan- 
dal, the  Tuileries,  nor  did  the  ever-changing  face  of 
the  political  world  command  her  attention.  She 
therefore  rose,  and  stiffly  took  her  leave.  De  Yas- 
selot  accompanied  them  to  the  hail. 

Denise  paused  in  the  entrance,  and  turned  to 
him. 

"  Seriously,"  she  said,  "  do  you  advise  me  to  ac- 
cept this  offer  to  sell  Perucca  ?  " 

"  I  scarcely  feel  authorised  to  give  you  any  ad- 
vice upon  the  subject,"  answered  Lory,  reluctantly. 
"  Though,  after  all,  Ave  are  neighbours." 

"Then " 

"  Then,  I  should  say  not,  mademoiselle.  At  all 
events,  do  nothing  in  haste.  And,  if  I  may  ask  it, 
will  you  communicate  with  me  before  you  finally 
decide  ?  " 


6e  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

They  had  come  in  an  open  cab,  which  was  wait- 
ing on  the  shady  side  of  the  street. 

"  A  young  man  who  changes  his  mind  very 
quickly,"  commented  Mademoiselle  Brun,  as  they 
drove  away. 


CHAPTER  VII 

journey's  end 

"  The  offender  never  pardons." 

De  Vasselot  returned  to  the  Baroness  de  Me- 
lide's  pretty  drawing-room,  and  there,  after  the 
manner  of  his  countrymen,  made  himself  agreeable 
in  that  vivacious  manner  which  earns  the  contempt 
of  all  honest  and,  if  one  may  say  so,  thick-headed 
Englishmen.  He  laughed  with  one,  and  with  an- 
other almost  wept.  Indeed,  to  see  him  sympathise 
with  an  elderly  countess  whose  dog  was  grievously 
ill,  one  could  only  conclude  that  he  too  had  placed 
all  his  affections  upon  a  canine  life. 

He  outstayed  the  others,  and  then,  holding  out 
his  hand  to  the  baroness,  said  curtly  — 

"  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye  !     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  Corsica,"  he  explained  airily. 

"  But  where  did  you  get  that  idea,  mon  ami  ?  " 

"  It  came.  A  few  moments  ago,  I  made  up  my 
mind."  And,  with  a  gesture,  he  described  the  ar- 
rival of  the  idea,  apparently  from  heaven,  upon  his 
head,  and  then  a  sideward  jerk  of  the  arm  seemed 
to  indicate  the  sudden  and  irrevocable  making  up 
of  his  own  mind. 


68  THE  ISLE  OF  UXEEST 

"  But  what  for  ?  "  cried  the  lady.  "  You  were 
not  even  born  there.  Your  father  died  thirty 
years  ago — you  will  not  even  find  his  tomb.  Your 
dear  mother  left  the  place  in  horror,  just  before  you 
were  born.  Besides,  you  promised  her  that  you 
would  never  return  to  Corsica — and  she  who  has 
been  dead  only  live  years !  Is  it  filial,  I  ask  you, 
my  cousin  ?    Is  it  filial  ?  " 

"  Such  a  promise,  of  course,  only  held  good  dur- 
ing her  lifetime,"  answered  Lory.  "  Since  there  is 
no  one  left  behind  to  be  anxious  on  my  account,  it 
is  assuredly  no  one's  affair  whether  I  go  or  stay." 

"  And  now  you  are  asking  me  to  say  it  will  break 
my  heart  if  you  go,"  said  the  baroness,  with  a  gay 
glance  of  her  brown  eyes  ;  "  and  you  may  ask — and 
ask ! " 

She  shook  hands  as  she  spoke. 

"  Go,  ingratitude  !  "  she  said.  "  But  tell  me, 
what  will  bring  you  back  ?  " 

"  War,"  he  ansAvered,  with  a  laugh,  pausing  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold. 

And  three  days  later  Lory  de  Yasselot  stood  on 
the  deck  of  a  small  trading  steamer  that  rolled 
sideways  into  Calvi  Bay,  on  the  shoulder,  as  it 
were,  of  one  of  those  March  mistrals  which  serve 
as  the  last  kick  of  the  dying  winter.  De  Yasselot 
had  taken  the  first  steamer  he  could  find  at  Mar- 
seilles, with  a  fine  disregard  for  personal  comfort, 
which  was  part  of  his  military  training  and  parcel 
of  his  sporting  instincts.  He  was,  like  many  is- 
landers, a  good  sailor,  for,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 


JOURNEY'S  END  69 

a  man  may  inherit  from  his  forefathers  not  only  a 
taste  for  the  sea,  but  a  stout  heart  to  face  its  griev- 
ous sickness. 

There  are  few  finer  sights  than  Calvi  Bay  when 
the  heavens  are  clear  and  the  great  mountains  of  the 
interior  tower  above  the  bare  coast-hills.  But  now 
the  clouds  hung  low  over  the  island,  and  the  shape 
of  the  heights  was  only  suggested  by  a  deeper  shadow 
in  the  grey  mist.  The  little  town  nestling  on  a  prom- 
ontory looked  gloomy  and  deserted  with  its  small 
square  houses  and  mediaeval  fortress — Calvi  the 
faithful,  that  fought  so  bravely  for  the  Genoese 
masters  whose  mark  lies  in  every  angle  of  its  square 
stronghold  ;  Calvi,  where,  if  (as  seems  likely)  the 
local  historian  is  to  be  believed,  the  greatest  of  all 
sailors  was  born,  within  a  day's  ride  of  that  other 
sordid  little  town  where  the  greatest  of  all  soldiers 
first  saw  the  light.  Assuredly  Corsica  has  done  its 
duty — has  played  its  part  in  the  world's  history — 
with  Christopher  Columbus  and  Napoleon  as  lead- 
ing actors. 

De  Yasselot  landed  in  a  small  boat,  carrying  his 
own  simple  luggage.  He  had  not  been  very  so- 
ciable on  the  trading  steamer ;  had  dined  with  the 
captain,  and  now  bade  him  farewell  without  an  ex- 
change of  names.  There  is  a  small  inn  on  the 
wharf  facing  the  anchorage  and  the  wave-washed 
steps  where  the  fishing-boats  lie.  Here  the  travel- 
ler had  a  better  lunch  than  the  exterior  of  the 
house  would  appear  to  promise,  and  found  it  easy 
enough  to  keep  his  own  counsel ;  for  he  was  now  in 


70  THE  ISLE  OF  UKKEST 

Corsica,  where  silence  is  not  only  golden,  but  speech 
is  apt  to  be  fatal. 

"  I  am  going  to  St.  Florent,"  he  said  to  the 
woman  who  had  waited  on  him.  "  Can  I  have  a 
carriage  or  a  horse  ?    I  am  indifferent  which." 

"You  can  have  a  horse,"  was  the  reply,  "and 
leave  it  at  Rutali's  at  St.  Florent  when  you  have 
done  with  it.  The  price  is  ten  francs.  There  are 
parts  of  the  road  impassable  for  a  carriage  in  this 
wind." 

De  Vasselot  replied  by  handing  her  ten  francs, 
and  asked  no  further  questions.  If  you  wish  to  an- 
swer no  questions,  ask  none. 

The  horse  presently  appeared,  a  little  thin  beast, 
all  wires,  carrying  its  head  too  high,  boring  im- 
patiently— masterful,  intractable. 

"  He  wants  riding,"  said  the  man  who  led  him  to 
the  door,  half -sailor,  half -stableman,  who  made  fast 
de  Yasselot's  portmanteau  to  the  front  of  the  high 
Spanish  saddle  with  a  piece  of  tarr}'^  rope  and  simple 
nautical  knots. 

He  nodded  curtly,  with  an  upward  jerk  of  the 
head,  as  Lory  climbed  into  the  saddle  and  rode 
away ;  for  there  is  nothing  so  difficult  to  conceal  as 
horsemanship. 

"A  soldier,"  muttered  the  stableman.  A  gen- 
darme, as  likely  as  not." 

De  Yasselot  did  not  ask  the  way,  but  trusted  to 
Fortune,  who  as  usual  favoured  him  who  left  her  a 
free  hand.  There  is  but  one  street  in  Calvi,  but 
one  way  out  of  the  town,  and  a  cross-road  leading 


JOITKNEY'S  END  Yl 

north  and  south.  Lory  turned  to  the  north.  He 
had  a  map  in  his  pocket,  which  he  knew  almost  by 
heart ;  for  he  was  an  officer  of  the  finest  cavalry  in 
the  world,  and  knew  his  business  as  well  as  any. 
And  it  is  the  business  of  the  individual  trooper  to 
find  his  way  in  an  unknown  country.  That  a  couple 
of  hours'  hard  riding  brought  him  to  his  own  lands, 
de  Vasselot  knew  not  nor  heeded,  for  he  was  aware 
that  he  could  establish  his  rights  only  by  force  of 
martial  law,  and  with  a  miniature  army  at  his 
back ;  for  civil  law  here  is  paralysed  by  a  cloud 
of  false  witnesses,  while  equity  is  administered  by 
a  jury  which  is  under  the  influence  of  the  two 
strongest  of  human  motives,  greed  and  fear. 

At  times  the  solitary  rider  mounted  into  the 
clouds  that  hung  low  upon  the  hills,  shutting  in  the 
valleys  beneath  their  grey  canopy,  and  again  de- 
scended to  deep  gorges,  where  brown  water  churned 
in  narrow  places.  And  at  all  times  he  was  alone. 
For  the  Government  has  built  roads  through  these 
rocky  places,  but  it  has  not  yet  succeeded  in  mak- 
ing traffic  upon  them. 

With  the  quickness  of  his  race  de  Yasselot  noted 
everything — the  trend  of  the  watersheds,  the  colour 
of  the  water,  the  prevailing  wind  as  indicated  by 
the  growth  of  the  trees — a  hundred  petty  details  of 
Nature  which  would  escape  any  but  a  trained  com- 
prehension, or  that  wonderful  eye  with  which  some 
men  are  born,  who  cannot  but  be  gipsies  all  their 
lives,  whether  fate  has  made  them  rich  or  poor ; 
who  cannot  live  in  towns,  but  must  breathe  the  air 


n  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

of  open  heaven,  and  deal  by  sea  or  land  with  the 
wondrous  works  of  God. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  de  Vasselot  crossed 
the  bridge  that  spans  the  Aliso — his  own  river,  that 
ran  through  and  all  around  his  own  land — and 
urged  his  tired  horse  along  the  level  causeway 
built  across  the  old  river-bed  into  the  town  of  St. 
Florent.  The  field-workers  were  returning  from 
vineyard  and  olive  grove,  but  appeared  to  take 
little  heed  of  him  as  he  trotted  past  them  on  the 
dusty  road.  These  were  no  heavy,  agricultural  boors, 
of  the  earth  earthy,  but  lithe,  dark-eyed  men  and 
women,  who  tilled  the  ground  grudgingly,  because 
they  had  no  choice  between  that  and  starvation. 
Their  lack  of  curiosity  arose,  not  from  stupidity, 
but  from  a  sort  of  pride  which  is  only  seen  in  Spain 
and  certain  South  American  States.  The  proudest 
man  is  he  who  is  sufiicient  for  himself. 

A  single  inquiry  enabled  de  Vasselot  to  find  the 
house  of  Rutali ;  for  St.  Florent  is  a  small  place, 
with  Ichabod  written  large  on  its  crumbling  houses. 
It  Avas  a  house  like  another — that  is  to  say,  the 
ground  floor  was  a  stable,  while  the  family  lived 
above  in  an  atmosphere  of  its  own  and  the  stable 
drainage. 

The  traveller  gave  Rutali  a  small  coin,  which  was 
coldly  accepted — for  a  Corsican  never  refuses  money 
like  a  Spaniard,  but  accepts  it  grudgingly,  mindful 
of  the  insult — and  left  St.  Florent  by  the  road  that 
he  had  come,  on  foot,  humbly  carrying  his  own 
portmanteau.    Thus  Lory  de  Yasselot,  went  through 


JOURNEY'S  END  Y3 

his  paternal  acres  with  a  map.  His  intention  was 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  Chateau  de  Vasselot  and 
walk  on  to  the  village  of  Olmeta,  and  there  beg 
bed  and  board  from  his  faithful  correspondent,  the 
Abbe  Susini. 

He  followed  the  causeway  across  the  marsh  to 
the  mouth  of  the  river,  and  here  turned  to  the  left, 
leaving  the  route  nationale  to  Calvi  on  the  right. 
That  which  he  now  followed  was  the  narrower 
route  departementale,  which  borders  the  course  of 
the  stream  Guadelle,  a  tributary  to  the  Aliso.  The 
valley  is  flat  here — a  mere  level  of  river  deposit, 
damp  in  winter,  but  dry  and  sandy  in  the  autumn. 
Here  are  cornfields  and  vineyards  all  in  one,  with 
olives  and  almonds  growing  amid  the  wheat — a 
promised  land  of  milk  and  honey.  There  are  no 
walls,  but  great  hedges  of  aloe  and  prickly  pear 
serve  as  a  sterner  landmark.  At  the  side  of  the 
road  are  here  and  there  a  few  crosses — the  silent 
witnesses  that  stand  on  either  side  of  every  Corsi- 
can  road — marking  the  spot  where  such  and  such 
a  one  met  his  death,  or  was  found  dead  by  his 
friends. 

Above,  perched  on  the  slope  that  rises  abruptly 
on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  road,  the  village  of 
Oletta  looks  out  over  the  plain  toward  St.  Florent 
and  the  sea — a  few  brown  houses  of  dusky  stone, 
Avith  roofs  of  stone  ;  a  square-towered  church,  built 
just  where  the  cultivation  ceases  and  the  rocks  and 
the  macquis  begin. 

De  Yasselot  quitted  the  road  where  it   begins 


Y4  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

sharply  to  ascend,  and  took  the  narrow  path  that 
follows  the  course  of  the  river,  winding  through 
the  olive  groves  around  the  great  rock  that  forms 
a  shoulder  of  Monte  Torre,  and  breaks  off  abruptly 
in  a  sheer  cliff.  He  looked  upward  with  a  soldier's 
eye  at  this  spot,  designed  by  nature  as  the  site  of  a 
fort  which  could  command  the  whole  valley  and 
the  roads  to  Corte  and  Calvi.  Far  above,  amid 
chestnut  trees  and  some  giant  pines,  De  Vasselot 
could  see  the  roof  and  the  chimneys  of  a  house — it 
was  the  Casa  Perucca.  Presently  he  was  so  imme- 
diately below  it  that  he  could  see  it  no  longer  as  he 
followed  the  path,  winding  as  the  river  wound 
through  the  narrow  flat  valley. 

Suddenly  he  came  out  of  the  defile  into  a  vast 
open  country,  spread  out  like  a  fan  upon  a  gentle 
slope  rising  to  the  height  of  the  Col  St.  Stefano, 
where  the  Bastia  road  comes  through  the  Lancone 
defile — the  road  by  which  Colonel  Gilbert  had  rid- 
den to  the  Casa  Perucca  not  so  very  long  before. 
At  the  base  of  the  fan  runs  the  Aliso,  without  haste, 
bordered  on  either  bank  by  oleanders  growing  like 
rushes.  Halfway  down  the  slope  is  a  lump  of  land 
which  looks  like,  and  probably  is,  a  piece  of  the 
mountain  cast  off  by  some  subterranean  disturb- 
ance, and  gently  rolled  down  into  the  valley.  It 
stands  alone,  and  on  its  summit,  three  hundred  feet 
above  the  plain,  are  the  square-built  walls  of  what 
was  once  a  castle. 

Lory  stood  for  a  moment  and  looked  at  this 
prospect,  noAv  pink  and  hazy  in  the  reflected  light 


JOUEKEY'S  END  75 

of  the  western  sky.  He  knew  that  he  was  looking 
at  the  Chateau  de  Vasselot. 

Within  the  crumbling  walls,  built  on  the  sheer 
edge  of  the  rock,  stood,  amid  a  disorderly  thicket 
of  bamboo  and  feathery  pepper  and  deep  copper 
beech,  a  square  stone  house  with  smokeless  chim- 
neys, and,  so  far  as  was  visible,  every  shutter  shut. 
The  owner  of  it  and  all  these  lands,  the  bearer  of 
the  name  that  was  written  here  upon  the  map, 
walked  slowly  out  into  the  open  country.  He 
turned  once  and  looked  back  at  the  towering  cliff 
behind  him,  the  rocky  peninsula  where  the  Casa 
Perucca  stood  amidst  its  great  trees,  and  hid  the 
village  of  Olmeta,  perched  on  the  mountain  side  be- 
hind it. 

The  short  winter  twilight  was  almost  gone  before 
de  Yasselot  reached  the  base  of  the  mound  of  half- 
shattered  rock  upon  which  the  chateau  had  been 
built.  The  wall  that  had  once  been  the  outer  bat- 
tlement of  the  old  stronghold  was  so  fallen  into 
disrepair  that  he  anticipated  no  difficulty  in  finding 
a  gap  through  which  to  pass  within  the  enclosure 
where  the  house  was  hidden ;  but  he  walked  right 
round  and  found  no  such  breach.  Where  the  wall 
of  rock  proved  vulnerable,  the  masonry,  by  some 
curious  chance,  was  invariably  sound. 

It  had  not  been  de  Yasselot's  intention  to  disturb 
the  old  gardener,  who,  he  understood,  was  left  in 
charge  of  the  crumbling  house,  but  to  return  the 
next  day  with  the  Abbe  Susini.  But  he  was  tired, 
and  having  failed  to  gain  an  entrance,  was  put  out 


76  THE  ISLE  OF  UKKEST 

and  angr}^,  when  at  length  he  found  hhnself  near 
the  great  door  built  in  the  solid  wall  on  the  north- 
west side  of  the  ruin.  A  rusty  bell-chain  was 
slowly  swinging  in  the  wind,  which  was  freshening 
again  at  sunset,  as  the  mistral  nearly  always  does 
when  it  is  dying.  With  some  difficulty  he  suc- 
ceeded in  swinging  the  heavy  bell  suspended  inside 
the  door,  so  that  it  gave  two  curt  clangs  as  of  a 
rusty  tongue  against  moss-grown  metal. 

After  some  time  the  door  was  opened  by  a  grey- 
haired  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  He  Avore  a  huge 
black  felt  hat,  and  the  baggy  corduroy  trousers 
of  a  deep  brown,  which  are  almost  universal  in  this 
country.  He  held  the  door  half  open  and  peered 
out.     Then  he  slow^ly  opened  it  and  stood  back. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  whispered.     "  Good  God  !  " 

De  Yasselot  stepped  over  the  threshold  with  one 
quick  glance  at  the  single-barrelled  gun  in  the  man's 
hand. 

"  I  am "  he  began. 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  the  other,  breathlessly. 
"  Straight  on ;  the  door  is  open." 

Half  puzzled,  Lory  de  Yasselot  advanced  toward 
the  house  alone ;  for  the  peasant  was  long  in  closing 
the  door  and  readjusting  chain  and  bolts.  The 
shutters  of  the  house  were  all  closed,  but  the  door, 
as  he  had  said,  was  open.  The  place  was  neatly 
enough  kept,  and  the  house  stood  on  a  lawn  of  that 
brilliant  green  turf  which  is  only  seen  in  parts  of 
England,  in  Ireland,  and  in  Corsica. 

De  Yasselot  went  into  the  house,  which  was  all 


JOURNEY'S  END  77 

dark  by  reason  of  the  closed  shutters.  There  was 
a  large  room,  opposite  to  the  front  door,  dimly 
indicated  by  the  daylight  behind  him.  He  went 
into  it,  and  was  going  straight  to  one  of  the 
windows  to  throw  back  the  shutters,  when  a  sharp 
click  brought  him  round  on  his  heels  as  if  he  had 
been  shot.  In  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  in  a  dark 
doorway,  stood  a  shadow.  The  click  was  that  of  a 
trigger. 

Quick  as  thought  de  Yasselot  ran  to  the  window, 
snatched  at  the  opening,  opened  it,  threw  back  the 
shutter,  and  was  round  again  with  bright  and  flash- 
ing eyes  facing  the  doorway.  A  man  stood  there 
watching  him — a  man  of  his  own  build,  slight  and 
quick,  with  close  upright  hair  like  his  own,  but  it 
was  white  ;  with  a  neat  upturned  moustache  like  his 
own,  but  it  was  white ;  with  a  small  quick  face  like 
his  own,  but  it  was  bleached.  The  eyes  that  flashed 
back  were  dark  like  his  own. 

"  You  are  a  de  Vasselot,"  said  this  man,  quickly. 

"  Are  you  Lory  de  Vasselot  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  am  your  father." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lory,  slowly ;  "  there  is  no  mistaking 
it." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AT   VASSELOT 

"  The  life  unlived,  the  deed  undone,  the  tear 
Unshed    .    .    .    not  judging  these,  who  judges  right  ?" 

It  was  the  father  who  spoke  first. 

"  Shut  that  shutter,  ray  friend,"  he  said.  "  It  has 
not  been  opened  for  thirty  years." 

He  had  an  odd  habit  of  jerking  his  head  upward 
and  sideways  with  raised  eyebrows.  It  would  ap- 
pear that  a  trick  of  thus  deploring  some  unavoidable 
misfortune  had  crystallised  itself,  as  it  were,  into  a 
habit  by  long  use.  And  the  old  man  rarely  spoke 
now  without  this  upward  jerk. 

Lory  closed  the  shutter  and  followed  his  father 
into  an  adjoining  room — a  small,  round  apartment 
lighted  by  a  skylight  and  impregnated  with  tobacco 
smoke.  The  carpet  was  worn  into  holes  in  several 
places,  and  the  boards  beneath  were  polished  by  the 
passage  of  smooth  soles.  Lory  glanced  at  his  father's 
feet,  which  were  encased  in  carpet  slippers  several 
sizes  too  large  for  him,  bought  at  a  guess  in  the 
village  shop. 

Here  again  the  two  men  stood  and  looked  at  each 
other.  And  again  it  was  the  father  who  broke  the 
silence. 

78 


1 


'are   you    lory   1)E    vasselot  ?  '  " 


AT  VASSELOT  Y9 

"  My  son,"  he  said,  half  to  himself ;  "  and  a  sol- 
dier. Your  mother  was  a  bad  woman,  mon  ami. 
And  I  have  lived  thirty  years  in  this  room,"  he  con- 
cluded simply. 

"  Name  of  God  !  "  exclaimed  Lory.  "  And  what 
have  you  done  all  this  time  ?  " 

"Carnations,"  replied  the  old  man,  gravely. 
"  There  is  still  daylight.  Come ;  I  will  show  you. 
Yes ;  carnations." 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  and  opened  the  door  be- 
hind him.  It  led  out  to  a  small  terrace  no  larger 
than  a  verandah,  and  every  inch  of  earth  was  occu- 
pied by  the  pale-green  of  carnation-spikes.  Some 
were  budding,  some  in  bloom.  But  there  was  not 
a  flower  amQng  them  at  which  a  modern  gardener 
would  not  have  laughed  aloud.  And  there  were 
tears  in  Lory  de  Vasselot's  eyes  as  he  looked  at 
them. 

The  father  stood,  jerking  his  head  and  looking  at 
his  son,  waiting  his  verdict. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  son's  reply  at  last ;  "  yes — very 
pretty." 

"  But  to-night  you  cannot  see  them,"  said  the  old 
man,  earnestly.  "  To-morrow  morning — we  shall 
get  up  early,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lory,  slowly ;  and  they  went  back 
into  the  little  windowless  room. 

"  We  will  get  up  early,"  said  the  count,  "  to  see 
the  pinks.  This  cursed  mistral  beats  them  to  pieces, 
but  I  have  no  other  place  to  grow  them.  It  is  the 
only  spot  that  is  not  overlooked  by  Perucca." 


80  THE  ISLE  OF  UJMREST 

He  spoke  slowly  and  mdififerentlj,  as  if  his  spirit 
had  been  bleached,  like  his  face,  by  long  confine- 
ment. He  had  lost  his  grip  of  the  world  and  of 
human  interests.  As  he  looked  at  his  son,  his  black 
eyes  had  a  sort  of  irresponsible  vagueness  in  their 
glance. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Lory,  gently,  at  length,  as  if  he 
were  speaking  to  a  child ;  "  why  have  you  done 
this?" 

"  Then  you  did  not  know  that  I  was  alive  ?  "  in- 
quired his  father  in  return,  with  an  uncanny,  quiet 
laugh,  as  he  sat  down. 

"  No." 

"  ISTo  ;  no  one  knows  that — no  one  but  the  Abbe 
Susini  and  Jean  there.  You  saw  Jean  as  you  came 
in.  He  recognised  you  or  he  would  not  have  let 
you  in  ;  for  he  is  quick  with  his  gun.  He  shot  a 
man  seven  years  ago — one  of  Perqcca's  men,  of 
course,  who  was  creeping  up  through  the  tamarisk 
trees.  I  do  not  know  what  he  came  seeking,  but 
he  got  more  from  Jean  than  he  looked  for.  Jean 
was  a  boy  when  your  mother  went  to  France,  and 
he  was  left  in  charge  of  the  chateau.  For  they  all 
thought  that  I  had  gone  to  France  with  your  mother, 
and  perhaps  the  police  searched  France  for  me ;  I 
do  not  know.  There  is  a  warrant  out  against  me 
still,  though  the  paper  it  is  written  on  must  be  yel- 
low enough  after  thirty  years." 

As  he  spoke  he  carefully  drew  up  his  trousers, 
which  were  of  corduroy,  like  Jean's ;  indeed,  the 
Count  de  Vasselot  was  dressed  like  a  peasant — but 


AT  YASSELOT  81 

no  rustic  dress  could  conceal  the  tale  told  by  the 
small  energetic  head,  the  clean-cut  features.  It  was 
obvious  that  his  thoughts  were  more  concerned  in 
his  immediate  environments — in  the  care,  for  in- 
stance, to  preserve  his  trousers  from  bagging  at  the 
knee — than  he  was  in  the  past.  He  had  the  curious, 
slow  touch  and  contemplative  manner  of  the  pris- 
oner. 

"  Yes ;  Jean  was  a  boy  when  he  first  came 
here,  and  now  he  is  a  grey-haired  man,  as  you 
see.  He  picks  the  olives  and  earns  a  little  by 
selling  them.  Besides,  I  provided  myself  with 
money  long  ago,  before — before  I  died.  I  thought 
I  might  live  long,  and  I  have,  for  thirty  years,  like 
a  tree." 

Which  was  nearly  true,  for  his  life  must  have 
been  somewhere  midway  between  the  human  and 
the  vegetable. 

"  But  why,  my  God !  "  cried  Lory,  impatiently, 
"  why  have  you  done  it  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  "  echoed  the  count,  in  his  calm  and  sup- 
pressed way.  "  Why  ?  Because  I  am  a  Corsican, 
and  am  not  to  be  frightened  into  leaving  the  country 
by  a  parcel  of  Peruccas.  They  are  no  better  than 
the  Luccans  you  see  working  in  the  road,  and  the 
miserable  Pisans  who  come  in  the  -winter  to  build 
the  terraces.  They  are  no  Corsicans,  but  come  from 
Pisa." 

"  But  if  they  thought  you  were  dead,  what  satis- 
faction could  there  be  in  living  on  here  ?  " 

But  the  count  only  looked  at  his  son  in  silence. 


82  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

He  did  not  seem  to  follow  the  hasty  argument.  He 
had  the  placid  air  of  a  child  or  a  very  old  man,  who 
will  not  argue. 

"  Besides,  Mattel  Perucca  is  dead." 

"  So  they  say.  So  Jean  tells  me.  I  have  not 
seen  the  abbe  lately.  He  does  not  dare  to  come 
more  often  than  once  in  three  months — four  times 
a  year.  Mattel  Perucca  dead ! "  He  shook  his 
head  with  the  odd,  upward  jerk  and  the  weary 
smile,     "  I  should  like  to  see  his  carcase,"  he  said. 

Then,  after  a  pause,  he  went  back  to  his  original 
train  of  thought. 

"  "We  are  different,"  he  said.  "  "We  are  Corsicans. 
It  was  only  when  the  Bonapartes  changed  their 
name  to  a  French  one  that  your  great-grandfather 
Gallicised  ours.  We  are  not  to  be  frightened  away 
by  the  Peruccas." 

"  But  since  he  is  dead  " — said  Lory,  with  an  effort 
to  be  patient. 

He  was  beginning  to  realise  now  that  it  was  all 
real  and  not  a  dream,  that  this  was  the  Chateau  de 
Yasselot,  and  this  was  his  father — this  little,  vague, 
quiet  man,  who  seemed  to  exist  and  speak  as  if  he 
were  only  half  alive. 

"  He  may  be,"  was  the  answer ;  "  but  that  will 
make  no  difference,  since  for  one  adherent  that  we 
have  the  Peruccas  have  twenty.  There  are  a  thou- 
sand men  between  Cap  Corse  and  Balagna  who,  if  I 
went  outside  this  door  and  w^as  recognised,  would 
shoot  me  like  a  rat." 

"But  why?" 


AT  VASSELOT  83 

"  Because  they  are  of  Perucca's  clan,  my  friend," 
replied  the  count,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder. 

"  But  still  I  ask  why  ?  "  persisted  Lory. 

And  the  count  spread  out  his  thin  white  hands 
with  a  gesture  of  patient  indifference. 

"  Well,  of  course  I  shot  Andrei  Perucca — the 
brother — thirty  years  ago.  "We  all  know  that. 
That  is  ancient  history." 

Lory  looked  at  the  little  white-haired,  placid 
man,  and  said  no  word.  It  was  perhaps  the  wisest 
thing  to  do.  When  you  have  nothing  to  say,  say 
nothing. 

"But  he  has  had  his  revenge — that  Mattel 
Perucca,"  said  the  count  at  length,  in  a  tone  of 
careless  reminiscence — "  by  living  in  that  house  all 
these  years,  and,  so  they  tell  me,  by  making  a  small 
fortune  out  of  the  vines.  The  house  is  not  his,  the 
land  is  not  his.  They  are  mine.  Only  he  and  I 
knew  it,  and  to  prove  it  I  should  have  to  come  to 
life.  Besides,  what  is  land  in  this  country,  unless 
you  till  it  with  a  spade  in  one  hand  and  a  gun  in 
the  other?" 

Lory  de  Yasselot  leant  forward  in  his  chair. 

"  But  now  is  the  time  to  act,"  he  said.  "  I  can 
act  if  you  will  not.     I  can  make  use  of  the  law." 

"  The  law,"  answered  his  father,  calmly.  "  Do 
you  think  that  you  could  get  a  jury  in  Bastia  to 
give  you  a  verdict  ?  Do  you  think  you  could  find 
a  witness  who  vv^ould  dare  to  appear  in  your  favour  ? 
No,  m}'-  friend.  There  is  no  law  in  this  country, 
except  that;"  and  he  pointed  to  a  gun  in  the  corner 


84  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

of  the  room,  an  old-fashioned  muzzle-loader,  with 
which  he  had  had  the  law  of  Andrei  Perucca  thirty 
years  before. 

"  But  now  that  there  is  no  Perucca  left  the  clan 
will  cease  to  exist,"  said  Lory. 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  father.  "  The  inheritor 
of  the  estate,  whoever  it  is,  will  become  the  head 
of  the  clan,  and  things  will  be  as  they  were  before. 
They  tell  me  it  is  a  woman  named  Denise  Lange," 

Lory  gave  a  start.  He  had  forgotten  Denise 
Lange,  and  all  that  world  of  Paris  fad  and  fashion. 

"And  the  women  are  always  the  worst,"  con- 
cluded his  father. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  some  moments.  And  then 
the  count  spoke  again  in  his  odd,  detached  way,  as 
if  he  were  contemplating  his  environments  from 
afar. 

"There  was  a  man  in  Sartene  who  had  an 
enemy.  He  was  a  shoemaker,  and  could  therefore 
work  at  his  trade  indoors.  He  never  crossed  his 
threshold  for  sixteen  years.  One  day  they  told 
him  his  enemy  was  dead,  that  the  funeral  was  for 
the  same  afternoon.  It  passed  his  door,  and  when 
it  had  gone  by,  he  stepped  out,  after  sixteen  years, 
to  watch  it,  and — Paff !  He  twisted  himself  round 
as  he  writhed  on  the  ground,  and  there  was  his 
enemy,  laughing,  with  the  smoke  still  at  the  muz- 
zle. The  funeral  was  a  trick.  No  ;  I  shall  not  be- 
lieve that  Mattel  Perucca  is  dead  until  the  Abbe 
Susini  tells  me  that  he  has  seen  the  body.  Not 
that  it  would  make  an}'^  difference.     I  should  not  go 


AT  VASSELOT  85 

outside  the  door.  I  am  accustomed  to  this  life 
now." 

He  sat  with  his  hands  idly  crossed  on  his  knee, 
and  looked  at  nothing  in  particular.  JS'othing  could 
arouse  him  now  from  his  apathy,  except  perhaps 
the  culture  of  carnations — certainly  not  the  arrival 
of  the  son  whom  he  had  never  seen.  He  had  that 
air  of  waiting  without  expectancy  which  is  as- 
suredly the  dungeon  mark,  and  a  moral  mourning 
worn  for  dead  Hope. 

Lory  contemplated  him  as  a  strange  old  man  who 
interested  him  despite  himself.  There  was  pity, 
but  nothing  filial  in  his  feelings.  For  filial  love 
only  grows  out  of  propinquity  and  a  firm  respect 
which  must  keep  pace  with  the  growing  demands 
of  a  daily  increasing  comprehension. 

"Why  did  you  come?"  asked  the  count,  sud- 
denly. 

It  seemed  as  if  his  mind  lay  hidden  under  the  ac- 
cumulated dehris  of  the  years,  as  the  old  chateau 
perhaps  lay  hidden  beneath  that  smooth  turf  which 
only  grows  over  ruins. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Lory,  thoughtfully. 
Then  he  turned  in  his  quick  way,  and  looked  at  his 
father  with  a  smile.  "Perhaps  it  was  the  good 
God  who  put  the  idea  into  my  head,  for  it  came 
quite  suddenly.  We  shall  grow  accustomed  to  each 
other,  and  then  we  may  find  perhaps  that  it  was  a 
good  thing  that  I  came." 

The  count  looked  at  him  with  rather  a  puzzled 
air,  as  if  he  did  not  quite  understand. 


86  THE  ISLE  OF  UJN'REST 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  length — "  yes  ;  perhaps  so.  I 
thought  it  likely  that  you  would  come.  Do  you 
mean  to  stay  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  have  not  thought  yet.  I 
have  had  no  time  to  think.  I  only  know  I  am 
hungry.  Perhaps  Jean  will  get  me  something  to 
eat." 

"  I  have  not  dined  yet,"  said  the  count,  simply. 
"  Yes  ;  we  will  dine." 

He  rose,  and,  going  to  the  door,  called  Jean,  who 
came,  and  a  whispered  consultation  ensued.  From 
out  of  the  debris  of  his  mind  the  count  seemed  to 
have  unearthed  the  fact  that  he  was  a  gentleman, 
and  as  such  was  called  upon  to  exercise  an  unspar- 
ing hospitality.  He  rather  impeded  than  helped 
the  taciturn  man,  who  seemed  to  be  gardener  and 
servant  all  in  one,  and  who  now  prepared  the  table, 
setting  thereon  linen  and  glass  and  silver  of  some 
value.  There  was  excellent  wine,  and  over  the 
simple  meal  the  father  and  son,  in  a  jerky,  explo- 
sive way,  made  merry.  For  Lory  was  at  heart  a 
Frenchman,  and  the  French  know,  better  than  any, 
how  near  together  tears  and  laughter  must  ever  be, 
and  have  less  difficulty  in  snatching  a  smile  from 
sad  environments  than  other  men. 

It  was  only  as  he  finally  cleared  the  table  that 
Jean  broke  his  habitual  silence. 

"  The  moon  is  up,"  he  said  to  the  count,  and  that 
was  all. 

The  old  man  rose  at  once,  and  went  to  a  window, 
which  had  hitherto  been  shuttered  and  barred. 


AT  VASSELOT  87 

"  I  sometimes  look  out,"  he  said,  "  when  there  is 
a  moon." 

With  odd,  slow  movements  he  opened  the  shutter 
and  window,  and,  turning,  invited  Lory  by  a  jerk 
of  the  head  to  come  and  look.  The  moon,  which 
must  have  been  at  the  full,  was  behind  the  chateau, 
and  therefore  invisible.  Before  them,  in  a  frame- 
work of  giant  pines  that  have  no  match  in  Europe, 
lay  a  panorama  of  rolling  plain  and  gleaming  river. 
Far  away  toward  Calvi  and  the  south,  range  after 
range  of  rugged  mountain  melted  into  a  distance, 
where  the  snow-clad  summits  of  Cinto  and  Grosso 
stood  majestically  against  the  sky.  The  clouds 
had  vanished.  It  was  almost  twilight  under  the 
southern  moon.  To  the  right  the  sea  lay  shimmer- 
ing. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  there  was  anything  like  it 
in  Europe,"  said   Lory,  after  a  long  pause. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  it,"  answered  his  father, 
gravely,  "  in  the  world." 

Father  and  son  were  still  standing  at  the  open 
window,  when  Jean  came  hurriedly  into  the  room. 

"  It  is  the  abbe,"  he  said,  and  went  out  again. 

The  count  stepped  down  from  the  raised  window 
recess,  and  turned  up  the  lamp,  which  he  had  low- 
ered. Lory  paused  to  close  the  shutter,  and  as  he 
did  so  the  Abbe  Susini  came  into  the  room  without 
looking  toward  the  window,  which  was  near  the 
door  by  which  he  entered,  without,  therefore,  see- 
ing Lory.  He  hurried  into  the  room,  and  stopped 
dead,  facing  the  count.     He  threw  out  one  finger, 


88  THE  ISLE  OF  UlS^REST 

and  pointed  at  his  interlocutor  as  he  spoke,  in  his 
quick  dramatic  way. 

"  I  have  just  seen  a  man  from  Calvi.  One  landed 
there  this  morning  whom  he  recognised.  It  could 
only  have  been  your  son.  If  one  recognises  him, 
another  may.     Is  the  boy  mad  to  return  thus " 

He  broke  off,  and  made  a  step  nearer,  peering 
into  the  count's  face. 

"  You  know  something.  I  see  it  in  your  face. 
You  know  where  he  is." 

"  He  is  there,"  said  the  count,  pointing  over  the 
priest's  shoulder. 

"Then  God  bless  him,"  said  the  Abbe  Susini, 
turning  on  his  heel. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  PROMISED   LAND 

"  I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always  spring 
Beneath  my  feet." 

Colonel  Gilbert  was  not  one  of  those  vision- 
aries who  think  that  the  lot  of  the  individual  man 
is  to  be  bettered  by  a  change  from,  say,  an  empire  to 
a  republic.  Indeed,  the  late  transformation  from  a 
republic  to  an  empire  had  made  no  difference  to 
him,  for  he  was  neither  a  friend  nor  a  foe  of  the 
emperor.  He  had  nothing  in  common  with  those 
soldiers  of  the  Second  Empire  who  had  won  their 
spurs  in  the  Tuileries,  and  owed  promotion  to  a 
woman's  favouritism.  He  was,  in  a  word,  too  good 
a  soldier  to  be  a  good  courtier ;  and  politics  repre- 
sented for  him,  as  they  do  for  most  wise  men,  an 
after-breakfast  interest,  and  an  edifying  study  of 
the  careers  of  a  certain  number  of  persons  who 
mean  to  make  themselves  a  name  in  the  easiest 
arena  that  is  open  to  ambition. 

The  colonel  read  the  newspapers  because  there 
was  little  else  to  do  in  Bastia,  and  the  local  gossip 
"  on  tap,"  as  it  were,  at  the  cafes  and  the  "  Eeunion 
des  Officiers,"  had  but  a  limited  interest  for  him. 
He  was,  however,  at  heart  a  gossip,  and  rode  or 
walked   through   the   streets   of   Bastia  with  that 

89 


90  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

leisurely  air  which,  seems  to  invite  the  passer-by  to 
stop  and  exchange  something  more  than  a  formal 
salutation. 

The  days,  indeed,  Tvere  long  enough  ;  for  his  serv- 
ice often  got  the  colonel  out  of  bed  at  dawn,  and 
his  work  was  frequently  done  before  civilians  were 
awake.  It  thus  happened  that  Colonel  Gilbert  was 
riding  along  the  coast-road  from  Brando  to  Bastia 
one  morning  before  the  sun  had  risen  very  high 
above  the  heights  of  Elba.  The  day  was  so  clear 
that  not  only  were  the  rocky  islands  of  Gorgona 
and  Capraja  and  Monte  Cristo  visible,  but  also  the 
mysterious  flat  Pianosa,  so  rarely  seen,  so  capri- 
cious and  singular  in  its  comings  and  goings  that  it 
fades  from  sight  before  the  very  eyes,  and  in  clear 
weather  seems  to  lie  like  a  raft  on  the  still  water. 

The  colonel  was  contemplating  the  scene  with  a 
leisurely,  artistic  eye,  when  some  instinct  made  him 
turn  his  head  and  look  over  his  shoulder  toward  the 
north. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  muttered,  with  a  nod  of  satisfaction. 

A  steamer  was  slowly  pounding  down  toward 
Bastia.  It  was  the  Marseilles  boat — the  old  Per- 
severance. And  for  Colonel  Gilbert  she  was  sure  to 
bring  news  from  France,  possibly  some  one  with 
whom  to  while  away  an  hour  or  so  in  talk.  He 
rode  more  leisurely  now,  and  the  steamer  23assed 
him.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  dried-fruit  fac- 
tory on  the  northern  outskirt  of  the  town,  the 
Perseverance  had  rounded  the  pier-head,  and  was 
gently  edging  alongside  the  quay.     By  the  time  he 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  91 

reached  the  harbour  she  was  moored,  and  her  cap- 
tain enjoying  a  morning  cigar  on  the  wharf. 

Of  course  Colonel  Gilbert  knew  the  captain  of 
the  Perseverance.  Was  he  not  friendly  with  the 
driver  of  the  St,  Florent  diligence?  All  who 
brought  news  from  the  outside  world  were  the 
friends  of  this  idle  soldier. 

"  Good  morning,  captain,"  he  cried.  "  What 
news  of  France?" 

The  captain  was  a  jovial  man,  with  unkempt  hair 
and  a  smoke  grimed  face. 

"  News,  colonel,"  he  answered.  "  It  is  not  quite 
ready  yet.  The  emperor  is  always  brewing  it  in 
the  Tuileries,  but  it  is  not  ripe  for  the  public  palate 
yet." 

"Ah!" 

"  And  in  the  meantime,"  said  the  captain,  testing 
with  his  foot  the  tautness  of  the  hawser  that 
moored  the  Perseverance  to  the  quay — "in  the 
meantime  they  are  busy  at  Cherbourg  and  Toulon. 
As  to  the  army,  you  probably  know  that  better 
than  I,  mon  colonel." 

And  he  finished  with  his  jovial  laugh.  Then  he 
jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  steamer. 

"  Your  newspapers  are,  no  doubt,  in  the  mail- 
bags,"  he  said.  "  We  had  a  good  passage,  and  are 
a  full  ship.  Of  passengers  I  have  two — and  ladies. 
One,  by  the  way,  is  the  heiress  of  Mattel  Perucca 
over  at  Olmeta,  whom  you  doubtless  knew." 

The  colonel  turned,  and  looked  toward  the 
steamer  with  some  interest. 


92  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  he  said  reflectively. 

"  Yes ;  a  pinched  old  maid  in  a  black  dress. 
None  will  marry  her  for  her  acres.  It  will  be  a 
])re  sale  with  a  vengeance.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
her  as  we  came  out  of  harbour.  I  did  not  see  the 
other,  who  is  young — her  niece,  I  understand. 
There  she  is,  coming  on  deck  now — the  heiress,  I 
mean.  She  will  not  look  her  best  after  a  night  at 
sea." 

And,  with  a  jerk  of  the  head,  he  indicated  a 
black-clad  form  on  the  deck  of  the  Perseverance.  It 
happened  to  be  Mademoiselle  Brun,  who,  as  a  mat. 
ter  of  fact,  looked  no  different  after  a  night  at  sea 
to  what  she  had  looked  in  the  drawing-room  of  the 
Baroness  de  Melide.  She  was  too  old  or  too  tough 
to  take  her  colour  from  her  environments.  She 
was  standing  with  her  back  toward  the  quay,  talk- 
ing to  the  steward,  and  did  not,  therefore,  see  the 
colonel  until  the  clank  of  his  spurred  heel  on  the 
deck  made  her  turn  sharply. 

"  You,  mademoiselle  !  "  exclaimed  the  colonel,  on 
seeing  her  face  as  he  stood,  kepi  in  hand,  staring 
at  her  in  astonishment. 

"  Yes ;  I  am  the  ogre  chosen  by  Fate  to  watch 
over  Denise  Lange,"  she  answered,  holding  out  her 
withered  hand. 

"  But  this  is  indeed  a  pleasure,"  said  the  colonel, 
with  his  ready  smile.  "  I  came  by  a  mere  accident 
to  offer  my  services,  as  any  Frenchman  would,  to 
ladies  arriving  at  such  a  place  as  Bastia,  as  a  friend, 
moreover,  of  Mattei  Perucca,  and  never  expected 


THE  PKOi\Ilb;p:D  LAND  93 

to  see  a  face  I  knew.  It  is  years,  mademoiselle, 
since  we  met — since  before  the  war — before  Sol- 
ferino." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun ;  "  since  before 
Solferino." 

And  she  glanced  suspiciously  at  him,  as  if  she 
had  something  to  hide.  A  chance  word  often  is 
the  "  open  sesame "  to  that  cupboard  where  we 
keep  our  cherished  skeleton.  Colonel  Gilbert  saw 
the  quick  glance,  and  misconstrued  it. 

"  I  wrote  a  letter  some  time  ago,"  he  said,  "  to 
Mademoiselle  Lange,  making  her  an  offer  for  her 
property,  little  dreaming  that  I  had  so  old  a  friend 
as  yourself  at  hand,  as  one  may  say,  to  introduce 
us  to  each  other." 

"  No,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"  And  I  was  surprised  to  receive  a  refusal." 

"Yes,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun,  looking  across 
the  harbour  toward  the  old  town. 

"  There  are  not  many  buyers  of  land  in  Corsica," 
he  explained,  half  indifferently,  "and  there  are 
plenty  of  other  plots  which  would  serve  my  pur- 
pose. However,  I  will  not  buy  elsewhere  until  you 
and  Mademoiselle  Lange  have  had  an  opportunity 
of  seeing  Perucca — that  is  certain.  No  ;  it  is  only 
friendly  to  keep  my  offer  open." 

He  was  standing  with  his  face  turned  toward  the 
deck-house  and  the  saloon  stairway,  and  tapped  his 
boot  idly  with  his  whip.  There  v/as  something 
expectant  and  almost  anxious  in  his  demeanour. 
Mademoiselle  Brun  was  looking  at  his  face,  and 


94  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

he  was  perhaps  not  aware  that  it  changed  at  this 
moment. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  without  looking  round ;  " that  is 
my  niece.     You  find  her  pretty  ?" 

"  Present  me,"  answered  the  colonel,  turning  to 
hook  his  sword  to  his  belt. 

Denise  came  hurriedly  across  the  deck,  her  eyes 
bright  with  anticipation  and  happiness.  This  was  a 
better  life  than  that  of  the  Eue  du  Cherche-Midi, 
and  the  stir  and  bustle  of  the  sailors,  already  at 
work  on  the  cargo,  were  contagious.  She  noticed 
that  Mademoiselle  Brun  was  speaking  to  an  officer, 
but  was  more  interested  in  the  carriage,  which,  in 
accordance  with  an  order  sent  by  the  captain,  was 
at  this  moment  rattling  across  the  stones  toward 
the  steamer. 

"This,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun,  "is  Colonel 
Gilbert,  whose  letter  you  answered  a  few  weeks 
ago." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Denise,  returning  his  bow,  and 
looking  at  him  with  frank  eyes.  "  Thank  you  very 
much,  monsieur,  but  we  are  going  to  live  at  Perucca 
ourselves." 

"By  all  means,"  laughed  the  colonel,  "try  it, 
mademoiselle ;  try  it.  It  is  an  impossibility,  I  tell 
you  frankly.  And  Corsica  is  not  a  country  in  which 
to  attempt  impossibilities.  See  here!  I  perceive  you 
have  your  carriage  ready,  and  the  sailors  are  now 
carrying  3^our  baggage  ashore.  You  are  going  to 
drive  to  Perucca.  Good !  Now,  as  you  pass  along 
the  road,  you  will  perceive  on  either  side  quite  a 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  95 

number  of  small  crosses,  simply  planted  at  the  road- 
side— some  of  iron,  some  of  wood,  some  with  a 
name,  some  with  initials.  They  are  to  be  found 
all  over  Corsica,  at  the  side  of  every  road.  Those 
are  people,  mademoiselle,  who  have  attempted  im- 
possibilities in  this  country  and  have  failed — at  the 
very  spot  where  the  cross  is  planted.  You  under- 
stand ?     I  speak  as  a  soldier  to  a  soldier's  daughter." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  nodded  slowly  and  gravely 
with  compressed  lips. 

"Rest  assured  that  we  shall  not  attempt  im- 
possibilities," replied  Denise,  gaily.  "  We  only  ask 
to  be  left  alone  to  feed  our  poultry  and  attend  to 
our  garden.  I  am  told  that  the  house  and  servants 
are  as  my  father's  cousin  left  them,  and  we  are  ex- 
pected to-day." 

"And  you,  colonel,  shall  be  our  protector," 
added  Mademoiselle  Brun,  with  one  of  her  straight 
looks. 

The  colonel  laughed,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
accompanied  them  to  the  carriage  which  awaited 
them, 

"  If  one  only  knew  whether  you  approve  or  dis- 
approve of  these  hair-brained  proceedings,"  he  took 
an  opportunity  of  sajdng  to  Mademoiselle  Brun, 
when  Denise  was  out  of  earshot. 

"  If  I  only  knew  myself,"  she  replied  coldly. 

They  climbed  into  the  high,  old-fashioned  car- 
riage, and  drove  through  the  new  Boulevard  du 
Palais,  upward  to  the  hills  above  the  town.  And 
if  they  observed  the  small  crosses  on  either  side  of 


96  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

the  road,  marking  the  spot  where  some  poor  wight 
had  come  to  what  is  here  called  an  accidental  death, 
they  took  care  to  make  no  mention  of  it.  For 
Denise  persisted  in  seeing  everything  in  that  rose 
light  Avhich  illumines  the  world  when  we  are  young. 
She  had  even  a  good  word  to  say  for  the  Persever- 
ance, which  vessel  had  assuredlv  need  of  such  and 
said  that  the  captain  was  a  good  French  sailor, 
despite  his  grimy  face. 

"  This,"  she  cried,  "  is  better  than  your  stuffy 
schoolroom ! " 

And  she  stood  up  in  the  carriage  to  inhale  the 
breeze  that  hummed  through  the  macquis  from  the 
cool  mountain-tops.  There  is  no  air  like  that 
which  comes  as  through  a  filter  made  of  a  hundred 
scented  trees — a  subtle  mingling  of  their  clean 
woody  odours. 

"Look!"  she  added,  pointing  down  to  the  sea, 
which  looked  calm  from  this  great  height.  "  Look 
at  that  queer  flat  island  there.  That  is  Pianosa. 
And  there  is  Elba.  Elba!  Cannot  the  magic  of 
that  word  rouse  you  ?  But  no,  you  have  no 
Corsican  blood  in  you  ;  and  you  sit  there  Avith  your 
uncompromising  old  face  and  j^our  black  bonnet  a 
little  bit  on  one  side,  if  I  may  mention  it" — and 
she  proceeded  to  put  Mademoiselle  Brun's  bonnet 
straight — "  you,  who  are  always  in  mourning  for 
something — I  don't  know  what,"  she  added  half 
reflectively,  as  she  sat  down  again. 

The  road  to  St.  Florent  mounts  in  a  semi-circle 
behind  Bastia  through  orange-groves  and  vineyards, 


THE  PROMISED  LAND  9 


"r 


and  the  tiny  private  burial-grounds  so  dear  to  Cor- 
sican  families  of  position.  These,  indeed,  are  a 
proud  people,  for  they  are  too  good  to  await  the 
last  da}''  in  the  company  of  their  humbler  brethren, 
but  must  needs  have  a  small  garden  and  a  hideous 
little  mausoleum  of  their  own,  with  a  fine  view  and 
easy  access  to  the  highroad. 

With  many  turns  the  great  road  climbs  round  the 
face  of  the  mountain,  and  soon  leaving  Bastia  be- 
hind, takes  a  southern  trend,  and  suddenly  com- 
mands from  a  height  a  matchless  view  of  the  Lake 
of  Biguglia  and  the  little  hillside  village  where  a 
Corsican  parliament  once  sat,  which  was  once,  in- 
deed, the  capital  of  this  war-torn  island.  For  every 
village  can  boast  of  a  battle,  and  the  rocky  earth  has 
run  with  the  blood  of  almost  every  European  na- 
tion, as  well  as  that  of  Turk  and  Moor.  Beyond 
the  lake,  and  stretching  away  into  a  blue  haze 
where  sea  and  land  melt  into  one,  lies  the  great 
salt  marsh  where  the  first  Greek  colony  was  lo- 
cated, where  the  ruins  of  Mariana  remain  to  this 
day. 

Soon  the  road  mounts  above  the  level  of  the 
semi-tropical  vegetation,  and  passes  along  the  face 
of  bare  and  stony  heights,  where  the  pines  are 
small  and  the  macquis  no  higher  than  a  man's  head. 

Denise,  tired  with  so  long  a  drive  at  a  snail's 
pace,  jumped  from  the  carriage. 

"  I  will  walk  up  this  hill,"  she  cried  to  the  driver, 
who  had  never  turned  in  his  seat  or  spoken  a  word 
to  them. 


98  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  Then  keep  close  to  the  carriage,"  he  answered. 

"  Why  ?  " 

But  he  only  indicated  the  macquis  with  his  whip, 
and  made  no  further  answer.  Mademoiselle  Brun 
said  nothing,  but  presently,  when  the  driver  paused 
to  rest  the  horses,  she  descended  from  the  carriage 
and  walked  with  Denise. 

It  was  nearly  midday  when  they  at  last  reached 
the  summit  of  the  pass.  The  heavy  clouds,  which 
had  been  long  hanging  over  the  mountains  that 
border  the  great  plain  of  Biguglia,  had  rolled  north- 
ward before  a  hot  and  oppressive  breeze,  and  the 
sun  was  now  hidden.  The  carriage  descended  at  a 
rapid  trot,  and  once  the  man  got  down  and  silently 
examined  his  brakes.  The  road  was  a  sort  of  cor- 
nice cut  on  the  bare  mountain-side,  and  a  stumble 
or  the  slipping  of  a  brake-block  would  inevitably 
send  the  carriage  rolling  into  the  valley  below. 

Denise  sat  upright,  and  looked  quickly,  with 
eager  movements  of  the  head,  from  side  to  side. 
Soon  they  reached  the  region  of  the  upper  pines, 
which  are  small,  and  presently  passed  a  piece  of 
virgin  forest — of  those  great  pines  which  have  no 
like  in  Europe. 

"  Look ! "  said  Denise,  gazing  up  at  the  great 
trees  with  a  sort  of  gasp  of  excitement. 

But  mademoiselle  had  only  eyes  for  the  road  in 
front.  Before  long  they  passed  into  the  region  of 
chestnuts,  and  soon  saw  the  first  habitation  they 
had  seen  for  two  hours.  For  this  is  one  of  the 
most   thinly   peopled  lands   of  Europe,  and   four 


THE  PKOMISED  LAND  99 

great  nations  of  the  Continent  have  at  one  time  or 
other  done  their  best  to  exterminate  this  untarae- 
able  race.  Then  a  few  more  houses  and  a  smaller 
road  branching  off  to  the  left  from  the  highway. 
The  carriage  swung  round  into  this,  which  led 
straight  to  a  wall  built  right  across  it.  The  driver 
pulled  up,  and,  turning,  brought  the  horses  to  a 
standstill  at  a  door  built  in  the  solid  wall.  With 
his  whip  he  indicated  a  bell-chain,  rusty  and  worn, 
that  swung  in  the  breeze. 

There  was  nobody  to  be  seen.  The  clouds  had 
closed  down  over  the  mountains.  Even  the  tops  of 
the  great  pines  were  hidden  in  a  thin  mist. 

Denise  got  down  and  rang  the  bell.  After  a  long 
pause  the  door  was  opened  by  a  woman  in  black, 
with  a  black  silk  handkerchief  over  her  head,  who 
looked  gravely  at  them. 

"  I  am  Denise  Lange,"  said  the  girl. 

"  And  I,"  said  the  woman,  stepping  back  to  ad- 
mit them,  "  am  the  widow  of  Pietro  Andrei,  who 
was  shot  at  Olmeta." 

And  Denise  Lange  entered  her  own  door  followed 
by  Mademoiselle  Brun. 


CHAPTER   X 

THUS     FAR 

"  There  are  some  occasions  on  which  a  man  must  sell  half  his  se- 
cret in  order  to  conceal  the  rest." 

"  There  is  some  one  moving  among  the  olean- 
ders down  by  the  river."  said  the  count,  coming 
quickly  into  the  room  where  Lory  de  Vasselot  was 
sitting,  one  morning  some  days  after  his  unexpected 
arrival  at  the  chateau. 

The  old  man  was  cool  enough,  but  he  closed  the 
window  that  led  to  the  small  terrace  where  he  cul- 
tivated his  carnations,  with  that  haste  which  indi- 
cates a  recognition  of  undeniable  danger,  coupled 
with  no  feeling  of  fear. 

"  I  know  every  branch  in  the  valley,"  he  said, 
"  every  twig,  every  leaf,  every  shadow.  There  is 
some  one  there." 

Lory  rose,  and  laid  aside  the  pen  with  which  he 
was  writing  for  an  extended  leave  of  absence.  In 
four  days  these  two  had,  as  one  of  them  had  pre- 
dicted, grown  accustomed  to  each  other.  And  the 
line  between  custom  and  necessity  is  a  fine  drawn 
one. 

''Show  me,"  he  said,  going  toward  the  window. 

"  Ah !  "  murmured  the  count,  jerking  his  head. 

100 


THCS  FAR  101 

"  You  will  hardly  perceive  it  unless  vou  are  a 
hunter — or  the  hunted." 

Lory  glanced  at  his  father.  Assuredly  the  sleep- 
ing mind  was  beginning  to  rouse  itself. 

"  It  is  nothing  but  the  stirring  of  a  leaf  here,  the 
movement  of  a  branch  there,  which  are  unusual  and 
unnatural." 

As  he  spoke,  he  opened  the  window  Avith  that 
slow  caution  which  had  become  habitual  to  his 
every  thought  and  action. 

"  There,"  he  said,  pointing  with  a  steady  hand ; 
"  to  the  left  of  that  almond  tree  which  is  still  in 
bloom.  "Watch  those  willows  which  have  come 
there  since  the  wall  fell  away,  and  the  terrace 
slipped  into  the  flooded  river  twenty-one  years  this 
spring.  You  will  see  the  branches  move.  There 
— there  !  You  see.  It  is  a  man,  and  he  comes  too 
slowly  to  have  an  honest  purpose." 

"  I  see,"  said  Lory.     "  Is  that  land  ours  ?  " 

The  count  gave  an  odd  little  laugh. 

"  You  can  see  nothing  from  this  window  that  is 
not  ours,"  he  answered.  "  As  much  as  any  other 
man's,"  he  added,  after  a  pause.  For  the  conviction 
still  holds  good  in  some  Corsican  minds  that  the 
mountains  a,re  common  property. 

"  He  is  coming  slowly,  but  not  wevy  cautiously," 
said  Lory.  "  Not  like  a  man  who  thinks  that  he 
may  be  watched  from  here.  He  probably  is  taking- 
no  heed  of  these  windows,  for  he  thinks  the  place 
is  deserted." 

"It  is  more  probable,"  replied  the  count,  "that 


102  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

he  is  coming  here  to  ascertain  that  fact.  What  the 
abbe  has  heard,  another  may  hear,  though  he  would 
not  learn  it  from  the  abbe.  If  you  want  a  secret 
kept,  tell  it  to  a  priest,  and  of  all  priests,  the  Abbe 
Susini.  Some  one  has  heard  that  you  are  here  in 
Corsica,  and  is  creeping  up  to  the  castle  to  find  out." 

"  And  I  will  go  and  find  him  out.  Two  can  play 
at  that  game  in  the  bushes,"  said  Lory,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  If  you  go,  take  a  gun ;  one  can  never  tell  how 
a  game  may  turn." 

"  Yes ;  I  will  take  a  gun  if  you  wish  it."  And 
Lory  went  toward  the  door.  "  No,"  he  said,  paus- 
ing in  answer  to  a  gesture  made  by  his  father,  "  not 
that  one.     It  is  of  too  old  a  make." 

And  he  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  his  father 
holding  in  his  hand  the  gun  with  which  he  had  shot 
Andrei  Perucca  thirty  years  before.  He  stood 
looking  at  the  closed  door  with  dim,  reflective  eyes. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  gun,  which  he  set  slowly 
back  in  its  corner. 

"  It  seems,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that  I  am  of  too 
old  a  make  also." 

He  went  to  the  window,  and,  opening  it  cau- 
tiously, stood  looking  doAvn  into  the  valley.  There 
he  perceived  that,  though  two  may  play  at  the  same 
game,  it  is  usually  given  to  one  to  play  it  better 
than  the  other.  For  he  who  was  climbing  up  the  hill 
might  be  followed  by  a  careful  eye,  by  the  chance 
displacement  of  a  twig,  the  bending  of  a  bough  ; 
while  Lory,  creeping  down  into  the  valley,  remained 


THUS  FAE  103 

quite  invisible,  even  to  his  father,  upon  whose  mem- 
ory every  shadow  was  imprinted. 

"  Aha  ! "  laughed  the  old  man,  under  his  breath. 
"  One  sees  that  the  boy  is  a  Corsican.  And,"  he 
added,  after  a  pause,  "  one  would  almost  say  that 
the  other  is  not." 

In  which  the  count's  trained  eye — trained  as  only 
is  the  vision  of  the  hunted — was  by  no  means  de- 
ceived. For  Lory,  who  was  far  down  in  the  valley, 
had  already  caught  sight  of  a  braided  sleeve,  and,  a 
moment  later,  recognised  Colonel  Gilbert.  The 
colonel  not  only  failed  to  perceive  him,  but  was  in 
nowise  looking  for  him.  He  appeared  to  be  en- 
tirely absorbed,  first  in  the  examination  of  the 
ground  beneath  his  feet,  and  then  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  rising  land.  In  his  hand  he  seemed  to 
be  carrying  a  note-book,  and,  so  far  as  the  watcher 
could  see,  consulted  from  time  to  time  a  compass. 

"  He  is  only  engaged  in  his  trade,"  said  Lory  to 
himself,  with  a  laugh  ;  and,  going  out  into  the  open, 
he  sat  down  on  a  rock  with  the  gun  across  his  knee 
and  waited. 

Thus  it  happened  that  Colonel  Gilbert,  working 
his  way  up  through  the  bushes,  note-book  in  hand, 
looked  up  and  saw,  within  a  few  yards  of  him,  the 
owner  of  the  land  upon  which  they  stood,  whom  he 
had  every  reason  to  believe  to  be  in  Paris. 

His  ruddy  face  was  of  a  deeper  red  as  he  slipped 
his  note-book  within  his  tunic  and  came  forward, 
holding  out  his  hand.  But  his  smile  was  as  ready 
and  good-natured  as  ever. 


104  THE  ISLE  OF  U^^EEST 

"  Well  met  I  "  he  said.  "  You  find  me,  count,  tak- 
ing a  professional  and  business-like  survey  of  the 
land  that  you  promised  to  sell  me." 

"  You  are  welcome  to  take  the  survey,"  answered 
Lory,  taking  the  outstretched,  cordial  hand,  "  but  I 
must  ask  you  to  let  me  keep  the  land.  I  did  not 
take  your  offer  seriously." 

"  It  was  intended  seriously,  I  assure  you." 

"  Then  it  was  my  mistake,"  answered  Lory,  quite 
pleasantly. 

He  tapped  himself  vigorously  on  the  chest,  and 
made  a  gesture  indicating  that  at  a  word  from  the 
colonel  he  was  ready  to  lay  violent  hands  upon 
himself  for  having  been  so  foolish.  The  colonel 
laughed,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  if  the  mat- 
ter were  but  a  small  one.  The  f)itiless  Mediterra- 
nean, almost  African,  sun  poured  down  on  them, 
and  one  of  those  short  spells  of  absolute  calm, 
which  are  characteristic  of  these  latitudes,  made  it 
unbearabl}^  hot.  The  colonel  took  off  his  cap,  and, 
sitting  down  in  quite  a  friendly  way  near  de  Yasse- 
lot  on  a  rock,  proceeded  to  mop  his  high  forehead, 
pressing  back  the  thin  smooth  hair  which  was 
touched  here  and  there  with  grey. 

"  You  have  come  here  at  the  wrong  time,"  he 
said,  "  The  heats  have  begun.  One  longs  for  the 
cool  breezes  of  Paris  or  of  Normandy." 

And  he  paused,  giving  Lorj--  an  opportunity  of 
explaining  Avhy  he  had  come  at  this  time,  which 
opportunity  was  promptly  neglected. 

"  At  all  events,  count,"  said  the  colonel,  replac- 


THUS  FAR  105 

ing  Ills  cap  and  lighting  a  cigarette,  "  I  did  not  de- 
ceive you  as  to  the  nature  of  the  land  which  1 
wished  to  buy.  It  is  a  desert,  as  you  see.  And 
I  cannot  help  thinking  that  something  might  l)e 
made  of  this  land." 

He  sat  and  gazed  lazily  in  front  of  him.  Pres- 
ently, leaving  his  cigarette  to  smoulder,  he  began 
to  buzz  through  his  teeth,  in  the  bucolic  manner,  an 
air  of  Offenbach.  He  was,  in  a  word,  entirely 
agricultural,  and  consequently  slow  of  speech. 

"Yes,  count,"  he  said,  with  conviction,  after  a 
long  pause ;  "  there  is  only  one  drawback  to 
Corsica." 

"Ah?" 

"The  Corsicans,"  said  the  colonel,  gravely. 
"  You  do  not  know  them  as  I  do  ;  for  I  suppose  you 
have  only  been  here  a  few  days  ?  " 

De  Vasselot's  quick  eyes  glanced  for  a  moment 
at  the  colonel's  face,  but  no  reply  was  made  to 
the  supposition.  Then  the  colonel  fell  to  his  guile- 
less Offenbach  again.  There  is  nothing  so  inno- 
cent as  the  meditative  rendering  of  a  well-known 
tune.  A  popular  air  is  that  which  echoes  in  empty 
heads. 

Colonel  Gilbert  glanced  sideways  at  his  com- 
panion. He  had  not  thought  that  this  was  a  silent 
man.  Nature  was  singularly  at  fault  in  her  mould- 
ings if  this  slightly  made,  dark-eyed  Frenchman 
was  habitually  taciturn.  And  the  colonel  was 
vaguely  uneasy. 

"  M}^  horee,"  he  said,  "  is  up  at  Olmeta.     I  took  a 


106  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

"Walk  round  by  the  river.  It  is  my  business  to  an- 
swer innumerable  questions  from  the  Ministry  of 
the  Interior.  Railway  projects  are  still  in  the  air, 
you  understand,  I  must  know  my  Corsica,  Be- 
sides, as  I  tell  you,  I  thought  I  was  on  my  own 
land." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  hold  to  my  joke,  for  it 
was  nothing  else,  as  you  know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  acquiesced  the  colonel. 
"  And  in  the  meantime,  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to  see 
you  here,  as  well  as  a  surprise.  I  need  hardly  tell 
you  that  your  presence  here  is  quite  unknown  to 
your  neighbours.  We  have  little  to  talk  about  at 
this  end  of  the  island  now  that  the  Administration 
is  centred  more  than  ever  at  Ajaccio ;  and  were  it 
known  in  the  district  that  you  are  at  Yasselot, 
you  may  be  sure  I  should  have  heard  of  it  at  the 
cafe  or  at  the  hotel  where  I  dine," 

"Yes,     I  came  without  drum  or  trumpet," 

"  You  are  wise," 

The  remark  was  made  so  significantly  that  Lory 
could  not  ignore  it  even  if  such  a  course  had  recom- 
mended itself  to  one  of  his  quick  and  impulsive 
nature, 

"  What  do  you  mean,  colonel  ?  " 

Gilbert  made  a  little  gesture  of  the  hand  that 
held  the  half-burnt  cigarette.  He  deprecated,  it 
would  appear,  having  been  drawn  to  talk  on  so 
serious  a  topic, 

"  Well,  I  speak  as  one  Frenchman  to  another,  as 
one  soldier  to  another.     If  the  emperor  does  not 


THUS  FAR  107 

die,  he  will  declare  Avar  against  Germany.  There 
is  the  situation  in  a  nutshell,  is  it  not  ?  And  do 
you  think  the  army  can  afford  to  lose  one  man  at 
the  present  time,  especially  a  man  who  has  made 
good  use  of  such  small  opportunities  of  distinction 
as  the  fates  have  offered  him  ?  And,  so  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  follow  the  intricacies  of  the 
parochial  politics,  your  life  is  not  worth  two  sous  in 
this  country,  my  dear  count.  There,  I  have 
spoken.     A  word  to  the  wise,  is  it  not  ?  " 

He  rose,  and  threw  away  his  cigarette  with  a 
nod  and  a  smile. 

"  And  now  I  must  be  returning.  You  will  allow 
me  to  pass  up  that  small  pathway  that  leads  past 
the  chateau.  Some  day  I  should,  above  all  things, 
like  to  see  the  chateau.  I  am  interested  in  old 
houses,  I  tell  you  frankly." 

"I  will  walk  part  of  the  way  with  you,"  an- 
swered Lory,  with  a  stiffness  which  was  entirely 
due  to  a  sense  of  self-reproach.  For  it  was  his  in- 
stinct to  be  hospitable  and  open-handed  and  friendly. 
And  Lory  would  have  liked  to  ask  the  colonel  then 
and  there  to  come  to  the  chateau. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  the  colonel,  as  they  climbed 
the  hill  together,  "  I  did  not,  of  course,  mean  to 
suggest  that  you  should  sell  me  the  old  house  which 
bears  your  name — only  a  piece  of  land,  a  few 
hectares  on  this  south-west  slope,  that  I  may  amuse 
myself  with  agriculture,  as  I  told  you.  Perhaps 
some  day  you  may  reconsider  your  decision  ?  " 

He  waited  for  a  reply  to  this  suggestion,  or  an 


108  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

invitation  in  response  to  the  hint  that  he  was  in- 
terested in  the  old  house.     But  neither  came. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  warning  as 
to  the  unpopularity  of  my  name  in  this  district," 
said  Lory,  rather  laboriously  changing  the  subject. 
"  I  had,  of  course,  heard  something  of  the  same  sort 
before  ;  but  I  do  not  attach  much  importance  to 
local  tradition,  do  you  ?  " 

The  colonel  paused  for  a  few  minutes.  He  had 
the  leisurely  conversational  manner  of  an  old  man. 

"  These  people  have  undergone  a  change,"  he  said 
at  length,  "  since  their  final  subjugation  by  ourselves 
— exactly  a  hundred  years  ago,  by  the  way.  They 
were  a  turbulent,  fighting,  obstinate  people.  Those 
qualities — good  enough  in  times  of  war — go  bad  in 
times  of  peace.  They  are  a  lawless,  idle,  dishonest 
people  now.  Their  grand  fighting  qualities  have 
run  to  seed  in  municipal  disagreements  and  elec- 
tioneering squabbles.  And,  worst  of  all,  we  have 
grafted  on  them  our  French  thrift,  which  has  run 
to  greed.  There  is  not  a  man  in  the  district  who 
would  shoot  you,  count,  from  any  idea  of  the  ven- 
detta, but  there  are  a  hundred  who  would  do  it  for 
a  thousand-franc  note,  or  in  order  to  prevent  you 
taking  back  the  property  which  he  has  stolen  from 
you.  That  is  how  it  stands.  And  that  is  why 
Pietro  Andrei  came  to  grief  at  Olmeta." 

"  And  Mattel  Perucca  ? "  asked  Lory,  thereb}'" 
causing  the  colonel  to  trip  suddenly  over  a  stone. 

"  Oh,  Perucca,"  he  answered.  "  That  was  differ- 
ent.    He  died  a  more  or  less  natural  death.     He 


THUS  FAK  109 

was  a  very  stout  man,  and  on  receiving  a  letter, 
gave  way  to  such  ungovernable  rage  that  he  fell  in 
a  fit.  True,  it  was  a  threatening  letter ;  but  such 
are  common  enough  in  this  country.  It  may  have 
been  a  joke  or  may  have  had  some  comparatively 
harmless  object.  None  could  have  foreseen  such  a 
result." 

They  were  now  near  the  chateau,  and  the  colonel 
rather  suddenly  shook  hands  and  went  away. 

"  I  am  always  to  be  found  at  Bastia,  and  am  al- 
ways at  your  service,"  he  said,  waving  a  farewell 
with  his  whip. 

Lory  found  the  door  of  the  chateau  ajar,  and  Jean 
watching  behind  it.  His  father,  however,  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  upon  what  mission  he  had  gone 
forth,  and  was  sitting  placidly  in  the  little  room, 
lighted  by  a  skylight,  where  they  always  lived. 
The  sight  of  Lory  reminded  him,  however. 

"  Who  was  it  ? "  he  asked,  without  showing  a 
very  keen  interest. 

"  It  was  a  man  called  Gilbert,"  answered  Lory, 
"  whom  I  have  met  in  Paris.  An  engineer.  He  is 
stationed  at  Bastia,  and  is  connected  with  the  rail- 
way scheme.  A  man  I  should  like  to  like,  and  yet 
—  He  ought  to  be  a  good  fellow.  He  has  every 
qualification,  and  yet " 

Lory  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  stood  reflec- 
tively looking  at  his  father. 

"  He  has  more  than  once  offered  to  buy  Yasselot," 
he  said,  watching  for  the  effect. 

"  You  must  never  sell  Yasselot,"  replied  the  old 


110  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

man.    He  did  not  seem  to  conceive  it  possible  that 
there  should  be  any  temptation  to  do  so. 

"I  do  not  quite  understand  Colonel  Gilbert," 
continued  Lory.  "  He  has  also  offered  to  buy  Per- 
ucca ;  but  there  I  think  he  has  to  deal  with  a  clever 
woman." 


CHAPTER  XI 

BY   SUKPKISE 

"  C'est  ce  qu'on  ne  dit  pas  qui  explique  ce  qu'on  dit." 

From  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  in  Paris  to  the 
Casa  Perucca  in  Corsica  is  as  complete  a  change  as 
even  the  heart  of  woman  may  desire.  For  the  Rue 
du  Cherche-Midi  is  probably  the  noisiest  corner  of 
that  noisy  Paris  that  lies  south  of  the  Seine ;  and 
the  Casa  Perucca  is  one  of  the  few  quiet  corners  of 
Europe  where  the  madding  crowd  is  non-existent, 
and  that  crowning  effort  of  philanthropic  folly,  the 
statute  holiday,  has  yet  to  penetrate. 

"Yes,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun,  one  morning, 
after  she  and  Denise  had  passed  two  months  in 
Avhat  she  was  pleased  to  term  exile — "  yes ;  it  is 
peaceful.  Give  me  war,"  she  added  grimly,  after  a 
pause. 

They  were  standing  on  the  terrace  that  looked 
down  over  the  great  valley  of  Yasselot.  There  was 
not  a  house  in  sight  except  the  crumbling  chateau. 
The  month  was  June,  and  the  river,  which  could  be 
heard  in  winter,  was  noAv  little  more  than  a  trick- 
ling stream.  A  faint  breeze  stirred  the  young  leaves 
of  the  copper-beech,  which  is  a  silent  tree  by  nature, 
and  did  not  so  much  as  whisper  now.     There  are 

111 


112  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

few  birds  in  Corsica,  for  the  natives  are  great  sports- 
men, and  will  shoot,  sitting,  anything  from  a  man 
to  a  sparrow  in  season  and  out. 

"  Listen,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun,  holding  up 
one  steady,  yellow  finger ;  but  the  silence  was  such 
as  will  make  itself  felt.  "  And  the  neighbours  do 
not  call  much,"  added  mademoiselle,  in  completion 
of  her  own  thoughts. 

Denise  laughed.  She  had  been  up  early,  for  they 
were  almost  alone  in  the  Casa  Perucca  now.  The 
servants  who  had  obeyed  Mattel  Perucca  in  fear 
and  trembling,  had  refused  to  obey  Denise,  who, 
with  much  spirit,  had  dismissed  them  one  and  all. 
An  old  man  remained,  who  was  generally  con- 
sidered to  be  half-witted ;  and  Maria  Andrei,  the 
widow  of  Pietro,  who  was  shot  at  Olmeta.  Denise 
superintended  the  small  farm. 

"  That  cheery  Maria,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun, 
"she  is  our  only  resource,  and  reminds  me  of  a 
cheap  funeral." 

"  There  is  the  colonel,"  said  Denise.  "  You  for- 
get him." 

"  Yes  ;  there  is  the  colonel,  who  is  so  kind  to  us." 

And  Mademoiselle  Brun  slowly  contemplated  the 
whole  landscape,  taking  in  Denise,  as  it  Avere,  in 
passing. 

"  And  there  is  our  little  friend,"  she  added, 
"  down  in  the  valley  there  who  does  not  call." 

"Why  do  you  call  him  little?"  asked  Denise, 
looking  down  at  the  Chateau  de  Yasselot.  "  He  is 
not  little." 


BY  SUEPRISE  113 

"He  is  not  so  large  as  the  colonel,"  explained 
mademoiselle. 

"  I  wonder  why  he  does  not  call  ?  "  said  Denise, 
presently,  looking  down  into  the  valley,  as  if  she 
could  perhaps  see  the  explanation  there. 

"  It  has  something  to  do  with  the  social  geog- 
raphy of  the  district,"  said  mademoiselle,  "  which 
we  do  not  understand.  The  Cheap  Funeral  alone 
knows  it.  Half  of  the  country  she  colours  red,  the 
other  half  black.  Theoretically,  we  hate  a  number 
of  persons  who  reciprocate  the  feeling  heartily. 
Practically,  we  do  not  know  of  their  existence.  I 
imagine  the  Count  de  Yasselot  hates  us  on  the  same 
principle." 

"  But  we  are  not  going  to  be  dictated  to  by  a 
number  of  ignorant  peasants,"  cried  Denise,  angrily. 

"  I  rather  fancy  we  are." 

Denise  was  standing  by  the  low  wall,  with  her 
head  thrown  back.  She  was  naturally  energetic, 
and  had  the  carriage  that  usually  goes  with  that 
quality. 

"  Are  you  sure  he  is  there  ?  "  she  asked,  still  look- 
ing down  at  the  chateau. 

"  No,  I  am  not.  I  have  only  Maria's  word  for 
it." 

"  Then  I  am  going  to  the  village  of  01m  eta  to 
find  out,"  said  Denise. 

And  mademoiselle  followed  her  to  the  house 
without  comment.  Indeed,  she  seemed  willing 
enough  to  do  that  which  they  had  been  warned  not 
to  do. 


114  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

On  the  road  that  skh-ts  the  hill  and  turns  amid 
groves  of  chestnut  trees,  they  met  two  men,  loiter- 
ing along  with  no  business  in  hand,  who  scowled  at 
them  and  made  no  salutation. 

"  They  may  scowl  beneath  their  great  hats,"  said 
Denise;  "I  am  not  afraid  of  them."  And  she 
walked  on  with  her  chin  well  up. 

Below  them,  on  the  left,  the  terraces  of  vine  and 
olive  were  weed-grown  and  neglected  ;  for  Denise 
had  found  no  one  to  work  on  her  land,  and  the  soil 
here  is  damp  and  warm,  favouring  a  rapid  growth. 

Colonel  Gilbert  had  been  unable  to  help  them  in 
this  matter.  His  official  position  necessarily  pre- 
vented his  taking  an  active  part  in  any  local  differ- 
ences. There  were  Luccans,  he  said,  to  be  hired  at 
Bastia,  hard-working  men  and  skilled  vine-dressers, 
but  they  would  not  come  to  a  commune  where  such 
active  hostility  existed,  and  to  induce  them  to  do  so 
would  inevitably  lead  to  bloodshed. 

The  Abbe  Susini  had  called,  and  told  a  similar 
tale  in  more  guarded  language.  Finding  the  ladies 
good  Catholics,  he  pleaded  for  and  abused  his  poor 
in  one  breath,  and  then  returned  half  the  money 
that  Denise  gave  him. 

"  As  likely  as  not  you  will  be  given  credit  for  the 
whole  in  heaven,  mademoiselle,  but  I  will  only  take 
part  of  it,"  he  said. 

"A   masterful   man,"   commented  Mademoiselle 

Brun,  when  he  was  gone. 

But  the  abb6  had  suggested  no  solution  to  Denise's 
difficulties.     The  estate  seemed  to  be  drifting  nat- 


BY  SURPRISE  115 

urally  into  the  hands  of  the  only  man  who  wanted 
it,  and,  after  all,  had  offered  a  good  price  for  it. 

"I  will  find  out  from  the  Abbe  Susini  or  the 
mayor  whether  the  Count  de  Vasselot  is  really 
here,"  Denise  said,  as  they  approached  the  village. 

"  And  if  he  is,  we  will  go  and  see  him.  We  can- 
not go  on  like  this.  He  says  do  not  sell,  and  then 
he  does  not  come  near  us.  He  must  give  his  reasons. 
Why  should  I  take  his  advice  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed  ? "  said  Mademoiselle  Brun,  to 
whom  the  question  was  not  quite  a  new  one. 

She  knew  that  though  Denise  would  rebel 
against  de  Yasselot's  advice,  she  would  continue  to 
follow  it. 

"It  seems  to  be  luncheon-time,"  said  Denise, 
when  they  reached  the  village.  "  The  place  is  de- 
serted.    It  must  be  their  dejeunerP 

"  It  may  be,"  responded  mademoiselle,  with  her 
manlike  curtness  of  speech. 

They  went  into  the  church,  which  was  empty, 
and  stayed  but  a  few  minutes  there,  for  Mademoi- 
selle Brun  was  as  short  in  her  speech  with  God  as 
with  men.  When  they  came  out  to  the  market- 
place, that  also  was  deserted,  which  was  singular, 
because  the  villagers  in  Corsica  spend  nearly  the 
whole  day  on  the  market-place,  talking  politics  and 
whispering  a  hundred  intrigues  of  parochial  policy  ; 
for  here  a  municipal  councillor  is  a  great  man,  and 
usually  a  great  scoundrel,  selling  his  favour  and  his 
vote,  trafficking  for  power,  and  misappropriating 
the  public  funds.     Kot  only  was  the  market-place 


116  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

empty,  but  some  of  the  liouse-doors  were  closed. 
The  door  of  a  small  shop  was  even  shut  from  within 
as  they  approached,  and  surreptitiously  barred. 
Mademoiselle  Brun  noticed  it,  and  Denise  did  not 
pretend  to  ignore  it. 

"  One  would  say  that  we  had  an  infectious  com- 
plaint," she  said,  with  a  short  laugh. 

They  went  to  the  house  of  the  Abbe  Susini. 
Even  this  door  was  shut. 

"  The  abbe  is  out,"  said  the  old  woman,  who  came 
in  answer  to  their  summons,  and  she  closed  the  door 
again  with  more  speed  than  politeness. 

Denise  did  not  need  to  ask  which  was  the  mayor's 
house,  for  a  board,  wath  the  word  "  Mairie  "  painted 
upon  it  (appropriately  enough  a  movable  board), 
was  affixed  to  a  house  nearly  opposite  to  the  church. 
As  they  walked  toward  it,  a  stone,  thro"wn  from 
the  far  corner  of  the  Place,  under  the  trees,  nar- 
rowly missed  Denise,  and  rolled  at  her  feet.  Ma- 
demoiselle Brun  walked  on,  but  Denise  swung 
round  on  her  heel.  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen, 
so  she  had  to  follow^  Mademoiselle  Brun,  after  all, 
in  silence.  She  was  rather  'pale,  but  it  was  anger 
that  lighted  her  eyes,  and  not  fear. 

Almost  immediately  a  volley  of  stones  followed, 
and  a  laugh  rang  out  from  beneath  the  trees.  And, 
strange  to  say,  it  was  the  laugh  that  at  last  fright- 
ened Denise,  and  not  the  stones ;  for  it  was  a  cruel 
laugh — the  laugh  of  a  brutal  fool,  such  as  one  may 
still  hear  in  a  few  European  countries  when  boys 
are  torturing  dumb  animals. 


BY  SUEPKISE  117 

"  Let  us  hurry,"  said  Denise,  hastily.  "  Let  us 
get  to  the  Mairie." 

"  Where  we  shall  find  the  biggest  scoundrel  of 
them  all,  no  doubt,"  added  mademoiselle,  who  was 
alert  and  cool. 

But  before  they  reached  the  Mairie  the  stones 
had  ceased,  and  they  both  turned  at  the  sound  of  a 
horse's  feet.  It  was  Colonel  Gilbert  riding  hastily 
into  the  Place.  He  saw  the  stones  lying  there  and 
the  two  women  standing  alone  in  the  sunlight.  He 
looked  toward  the  trees,  and  then  round  at  the 
closed  houses.  With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  he 
rode  toward  Denise  and  dismounted. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "  they  have  been  fright- 
ening you." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  They  are  not  men,  but 
brutes." 

The  colonel,  who  was  always  gentle  in  manner, 
made  a  deprecatory  gesture  with  the  great  riding- 
whip  that  he  invariably  carried. 

"  You  must  remember,"  he  said,  "  that  they  are 
but  half  civilised.  You  know  their  history — they 
have  been  conquered  by  all  the  greedy  nations  in 
succession,  and  they  have  never  known  peace  from 
the  time  that  history  began  until  a  hundred  years 
ago.  They  are  barbarians,  mademoiselle,  and  bar- 
barians always  distrust  a  newcomer." 

"  But  why  do  they  hate  me  ?  " 

"  Because  they  do  not  know  you,  mademoiselle," 
replied  the  colonel,  with  perhaps  a  second  meaning 
in  his  blue  eyes. 


118  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

And,  after  a  pause,  he  explained  further. 

"  Because  they  do  not  understand  you.  They  be- 
long to  one  of  the  strongest  clans  in  Corsica,  and  it 
is  the  ambition  of  every  one  to  belong  to  a  strong 
clan.  But  the  Peruccas  are  in  danger  of  falling 
into  dissension  and  disorder,  for  they  have  no  head. 
You  are  the  head,  mademoiselle.  And  the  work 
they  expect  of  you  is  not  work  for  such  hands  as 
yours." 

And  again  Colonel  Gilbert  looked  at  Denise 
slowly  and  thoughtfully.  She  did  not  perceive  the 
glance,  for  she  was  standing  with  her  head  half 
turned  toward  the  trees. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said,  noting  the  direction  of  her  glance, 
"  they  will  throw  no  more  stones,  mademoiselle. 
You  need  have  no  anxiety.  They  fear  a  uniform 
as  much  as  they  hate  it." 

"  And  if  you  had  not  come  at  that  moment  ?  " 

"Ah  ! "  said  the  colonel,  gravely  ;  and  that  was 
all.  "  At  any  rate,  I  am  glad  I  came,"  he  added, 
in  a  lighter  tone,  after  a  pause.  "  You  were  going 
to  the  Mairie,  mesdemoiselles,  when  I  arrived. 
Take  my  advice,  and  do  not  go  there.  Go  to  the 
abbe  if  you  like — as  a  man,  not  as  a  priest — and 
come  to  me  whenever  you  desire  a  service,  but  to 
no  one  else  in  Corsica." 

Denise  turned  as  if  she  were  going  to  make  an 
exception  to  this  sweeping  restriction,  but  she 
checked  herself  and  said  nothing.  And  all  the 
while  Mademoiselle  Brun  stood  by  in  silence,  a  little, 
patient,  bent  woman,  with  compressed   lips,  and 


BY  SURPRISE  119 

those  steady  hazel  eyes  that  see  so  much  and  betray 
so  little. 

"  The  abbe  is  not  at  home,"  continued  the  colonel. 
"  I  saw  him  many  miles  from  here  not  long  ago  ; 
and  although  he  is  quick  on  his  legs — none  quicker 
— he  cannot  be  here  yet.  If  you  are  going  toward 
the  Casa  Perucca,  you  will  perhaps  allow  me  to 
accompany  you." 

He  led  the  way  as  he  spoke,  leading  loosely  by 
the  bridle  the  horse  which  followed  him,  and  nuz- 
zled thoughtfully  at  his  shoulder.  The  colonel  was, 
it  appeared,  one  whose  gentle  ways  endeared  him  to 
animals. 

It  was  glaringly  hot,  and  when  they  reached  the 
Casa  Perucca,  Denise  asked  the  colonel  to  come  in 
and  rest.  It  was,  moreover,  luncheon-time,  and  in 
a  thinly  populated  country  the  great  distances 
between  neighbours  are  conducive  to  an  easier 
hospitality  than  that  which  exists  in  closer  quarters. 
The  colonel  naturall}'^  stayed  to  luncheon. 

He  was  kind  and  affable,  and  had  a  hundred 
little  scraps  of  gossip  such  as  exiles  love.  He  made 
no  mention  of  his  offer  to  buy  Perucca,  remembered 
only  the  fact  that  he  was  a  gentleman  accepting 
frankly  a  lady's  frank  hospitality,  and  if  the  con- 
versation turned  to  local  matters,  he  gracefully 
guided  it  elsewhere. 

Immediately  after  luncheon  he  rose  from  the 
table,  refusing  even  to  wait  for  coffee. 

"  I  have  my  duties,"  he  explained.  "  The  War 
OfSce  is,  for  reasons  known  to  itself,  moving  troops, 


120  THE  ISLE  OF  FIS'EEST 

and  I  have  gradually  crept  up  the  ladder  at  Bastia, 
till  I  am  nearly  at  the  top  there." 

Denise  went  with  him  to  the  stable  to  see  that 
his  horse  had  been  cared  for. 

"  They  have  only  left  me  the  decrepit  and  the 
half-witted,"  she  said,  "  but  I  am  not  beaten  yet." 

Colonel  Gilbert  fetched  the  horse  himself  and 
tightened  the  girths.  They  walked  together  toward 
the  great  gate  of  solid  wood  which  fitted  into  the 
high  wall  so  closely  that  none  could  peep  through 
so  much  as  a  crack.  At  the  door  the  colonel 
lingered,  leaning  against  his  great  horse  and  strok- 
ing its  shoulder  thoughtfully  with  a  gloved  finger. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said  at  length. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Denise,  looking  at  him  so 
honestly  in  the  face  that  he  had  to  turn  away. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  said  slowly,  "  to  marry 
me." 

Denise  looked  at  him  in  utter  astonishment,  her 
face  suddenly  red,  her  eyes  half  afraid. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said. 

"  And  yet  it  is  simple  enough,"  answered  the 
colonel,  who  himself  was  embarrassed  and  ill  at 
ease.     "  I   ask   you   to   marry   me.     You   think   I 

am  too  old "     He  paused,   seeking  his  Avords. 

"  I  am  not  forty  yet,  and,  at  all  events,  I  am  not 
making  the  mistake  usually  made  by  very  young 
men.  I  do  not  imagine  that  I  love  you — I  know 
it." 

They  stood  for  a  minute  in  silence;  then  the 
colonel  spoke  again. 


BY  SURPRISE  121 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  That  it  is  hard  to  lose  the  only  friend  we  have 
in  Corsica." 

"  You  need  not  do  that,"  replied  the  colonel.  "  I 
do  not  even  ask  you  to  answer  now." 

"  Oh,  I  can  answer  at  once." 

Colonel  Gilbert  bit  his  lip,  and  looked  at  the 
ground  in  silence. 

"  Then  I  am  too  old  ?  "  he  said  at  length. 

"I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  that  or  not," 
answered  Denise;  and  neither  spoke  while  the 
colonel  mounted  and  rode  slowly  away.  Denise 
closed  the  door  quite  softly  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A   SUMMONS 

"  One  stern  tyrannic  thought  that  made 
All  other  thoughts  its  slave." 

All  round  the  Mediterranean  Sea  there  dwell 
people  who  understand  the  art  of  doing  nothing. 
They  do  it  unblushingly,  peaceably,  and  of  a  set 
purpose.  Moreover,  their  forefathers  must  have 
been  addicted  to  a  similar  philosophy ;  for  there  is 
no  Mediterranean  town  or  village  without  its  prom- 
enade or  lounging-place,  where  the  trees  have  grown 
quite  large,  and  the  shade  is  quite  deep,  and  the 
wooden  or  stone  seats  are  shiny  with  use.  Here 
those  whom  the  French  call  "  worth-nothings " 
congregate  peacefully  and  happily,  to  look  at  the 
sea  and  contemplate  life  from  that  reflective  and 
calm  standpoint  which  is  only  to  be  enjoyed  by  the 
man  who  has  nothing  to  lose.  To  begin  at  Yalentia, 
one  will  find  these  human  weeds  almost  Oriental  in 
their  apathy.  Farther  north,  at  Barcelona,  they  are 
given  to  fitful  lapses  into  activity  before  the  heat  of 
the  day.  At  Marseilles  they  are  almost  energetic, 
and  are  even  known  to  take  the  trouble  of  asking 
the  passer  for  alms.  But  eastward,  beyond  Toulon, 
thev  understand  their  business  better,  and  do  not 
even  trouble  to  talk  among  themselves.     The  French 

122 


A  SUMMONS  123 

worth-nothing  is,  in  a  word,  worth  leas  than  any  of 
his  brothers — much  less  than  the  Italian,  who  is 
quite  easily  roused  to  a  display  of  temper  and  a 
rusty  knife — and  more  nearly  approaches  the  su- 
preme calm  of  the  Moor,  who,  across  the  Mediter- 
ranean, will  sit  all  day  and  stare  at  nothing  with 
any  man  in  the  world.  And  between  these  dreamy 
coasts  there  lie  half-a-dozen  islands  which,  strange 
to  say,  are  islands  of  unrest.  In  Majorca  every  man 
works  from  morn  till  eve.  In  Minorca  they  do  the 
same,  and  quarrel  after  nightfall.  In  Iviza  they 
quarrel  all  day.  In  Corsica  they  do  nothing,  rest- 
lessly ;  while  Sardinia,  as  all  the  world  knows,  is  a 
hotbed  of  active  discontent. 

At  Ajaccio  there  are  half  a  dozen  idlers  on  the 
Place  Bonaparte,  who  sit  under  the  trees  against 
the  wall,  but  they  never  sit  there  long,  and  do  not 
know  their  business.  At  St.  Florent,  in  the  north 
of  the  island,  which  has  a  western  aspect — the  best 
for  idling — there  are  but  two  real,  unadulterated 
knights  of  industry,  who  sit  on  the  low  wall  of  that 
which  is  called  the  New  Quay,  and  conscientiously 
do  nothing  from  morning  till  night. 

"  Of  course  I  know  him,"  one  was  saying  to  the 
other.  "  Do  I  not  remember  his  father,  and  are  not 
all  the  de  Yasselots  cut  with  the  same  knife  ?  I 
tell  you  there  was  a  moon,  and  I  saw  him  get  off 
his  horse,  just  here  at  the  very  door  of  Rutali's 
stable,  and  unstrap  his  sack,  which  he  carried  him- 
self, and  set  off  toward  Olmeta." 

The  speaker  lapsed  into  silence,  and  Colonel  Gil- 


124:  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

bei't,  who  had  lunched,  and  was  now  sitting  at  the 
open  window  of  the  little  inn,  which  has  neither 
sign  nor  license,  leant  farther  forward.  For  the 
word  "  01m  eta  "  never  failed  to  bring  a  light  of  en- 
ergy and  enterprise  into  his  quiet  eyes. 

The  inn  has  its  entrance  in  the  main  street  of  St. 
Florent,  and  only  the  back  windows  look  out  upon 
the  quay  and  across  the  bay.  It  was  at  one  of  these 
windows  that  Colonel  Gilbert  was  enjoying  a  cigar- 
ette and  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  the  loafers  on  the 
quay  were  unaware  of  his  presence  there.  And  for 
the  sixth  time  at  least,  the  story  of  Lory  de  Vasse- 
lot's  arrival  at  St.  Florent  and  departure  for  01- 
meta  was  told  and  patiently  heard.  Has  not  one 
of  the  great  students  of  human  nature  said  that  the 
canaille  of  all  nations  are  much  alike  ?  And  the 
dull  or  idle  of  intellect  assuredly  resemble  each 
other  in  the  patience  with  which  the}"  will  listen  to 
or  tell  the  same  story  over  and  over  again. 

The  colonel  heard  the  tale,  listlessly  gazing 
across  the  bay  with  dreamy  eyes,  and  only  gave 
the  talker  his  full  attention  when  more  ancient  his- 
tory was  touched  upon. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  idler ;  "  and  I  remember  his 
father  when  he  was  just  at  that  age — as  like  this 
one  as  one  sheep  is  like  another.  Nor  have  I  for- 
gotten the  story  which  few  remember  now." 

He  pressed  down  the  tobacco  into  his  wooden 
pipe — for  they  are  pipe-smokers  in  a  cigarette  lati- 
tude— and  waited  cunningly  for  curiosity  to  grow. 
His  companion  showed  no  sign,  though  the  colonel 


A  SUMMONS  125 

set  his  empty  coti'ee-cup  noiselessly  aside  and  leant 
his  elbow  on  the  window-sill. 

The  speaker  jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of 
Olmeta  over  his  left  shoulder  far  up  on  the  moun- 
tain-side. 

"  That  story  was  buried  with  Perucca,"  he  said, 
after  a  long  pause.  "  Perhaps  the  Abbe  Susini 
knows  it.  Who  can  tell  what  a  priest  knows  ? 
There  were  two  Peruccas  once — fine,  big  men — and 
neither  married.  The  other — Andrei  Perucca — who 
has  been  in  hell  these  thirty  years,  made  sheep's 
eyes,  they  told  me,  at  de  Yasselot's  young  wife. 
She  was  French,  and  willing  enough,  no  doubt. 
She  was  dull,  down  there  in  that  great  chateau ;  and 
when  a  woman  is  dull  she  must  either  go  to  church 
or  to  the  devil.  She  cannot  content  herself  with 
tobacco  or  the  drink,  like  a  man.  De  Vasselot 
heard  of  it.  He  was  a  quiet  man,  and  he  waited. 
One  day  he  began  to  carry  a  gun,  like  you  and  me 
— a  bad  example,  eh  ?  Then  Andrei  Perucca  was 
seen  to  carry  a  gun  also.  And,  of  course,  in  time 
they  met — up  there  on  the  road  from  Pruneta  to 
Murato.  The  clouds  were  down,  and  the  gregale 
was  blowing  cold  and  showery.  It  is  when  the 
gregale  blows  that  the  clouds  seem  to  whisper  as 
they  crowd  through  the  narrow  places  up  among 
the  peaks,  and  there  was  no  other  sound  while 
these  two  men  crept  round  each  other  among  the 
rocks,  like  tw^o  cats  upon  a  roof.  De  Yasselot  was 
quicker  and  smaller,  and  as  agile  as  a  goat,  and 
Andrei  Perucca  lost  him  altogether.  He  was  a  fool. 


126  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

He  went  to  look  for  him.  As  if  any  one  in  his 
senses  would  go  to  look  for  a  Corsican  in  the  rocks ! 
That  is  how  the  gendarmes  get  killed.  At  length 
Andrei  Perucca  raised  his  head  over  a  big  stone, 
and  looked  right  into  the  muzzle  of  de  Yasselot's 
gun.  The  next  minute  there  was  no  head  upon 
Perucca's  shoulders." 

The  narrator  paused,  and  relighted  his  pipe  with 
a  foul-smelling  sulphur  match. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  reflectively  ;  "  they  are  fine  men, 
the  de  Yasselots." 

He  tapped  himself  on  the  chest  with  the  stem  of 
his  pipe,  and  made  a  gesture  toward  the  mountains 
and  the  sky,  as  if  calling  upon  the  gods  to  hear 
him. 

"  I  am  all  for  the  de  Yasselots — I,"  he  said. 

Colonel  Gilbert  leant  out  of  the  window,  and 
quietly  took  stock  of  this  valuable  adherent. 

"  At  that  time,"  continued  the  speaker,  "  we  had 
at  Bastia  a  young  prefect  who  took  himself  seri- 
ously. He  was  going  to  reform  the  world.  They 
decided  to  arrest  the  Count  de  Yasselot,  though 
they  had  not  a  scrap  of  evidence,  and  the  clan  was 
strong  in  those  days,  stronger  than  the  Peruccas 
are  to-day.  But  they  never  caught  him.  They 
disappeared  bag  and  baggage — went  to  Paris,  I  un- 
derstand ;  and  they  say  the  count  died  there,  or 
was  perhaps  killed  by  the  Peruccas,  who  grew 
strong  under  Mattel,  so  that"  in  a  few  years  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  a  de  Yasselot  to 
show    his    face    in    this    country.     Then    Mattel 


A  SUMMONS  127 

Perucca  died,  and  was  hardly  in  his  grave  before 
this  man  came.  I  tell  you,  I  saw  him  myself,  a  de 
Vasselot,  with  his  father's  quick  way  of  turning  his 
head,  of  sitting  in  the  saddle  lightly  like  a  Spaniard 
or  a  Corsican.  That  was  in  the  spring,  and  it  is 
now  July — three  months  ago.  And  he  has  never 
been  seen  or  heard  of  since.  But  he  is  here,  I  tell 
you ;  he  is  here  in  the  island.  As  likely  as  not  he 
is  in  the  old  chateau  down  there  in  the  valley.  No 
honest  man  has  set  his  foot  across  the  threshold 
since  the  de  Yasselots  left  it  thirty  years  ago — only 
Jean  is  there,  who  has  the  evil  eye.  But  there  are 
plenty  of  Perucca's  people  up  at  Olmeta  who  would 
risk  Jean's  eye,  and  break  down  the  doors  of  the 
chateau  at  a  word  from  the  Casa  Perucca.  But  the 
girl  there  who  is  the  head  of  the  clan  will  not  say 
the  word.  She  does  not  understand  that  she  is 
powerful  if  she  would  only  go  to  work  in  the  right 
way,  and  help  her  people.  Instead  of  that,  she 
quarrels  with  them  over  such  small  matters  as  the 
right  of  grazing  or  of  cutting  wood.  She  will  make 
the  place  too  hot  for  her "  He  broke  off  sud- 
denly. "What  is  that?"  he  said,  turning  on  the 
wall,  which  was  polished  smooth  by  constant  fric- 
tion. 

He  turned  to  the  north  and  listened,  looking  in 
the  direction  of  Cap  Corse,  from  whence  the 
Bastia  road  comes  winding  down  the  mountain 
slopes, 

"  I  hear  nothing,"  said  his  companion. 

"  Then  you  are  deaf.     It  is  the  diligence  half  an 


128  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

hour  before  its  time,  and  the  driver  of  it  is  shouting 
as  he  comes — shouting  to  the  people  on  tlie  road. 

It  seems  that  there  is  news " 

But  Colonel  Gilbert  heard  no  more,  for  he  had 
seized  his  sword,  ami  was  already  halfway  down 
the  stone  stairs.  It  appeared  that  he  expected 
news,  and  when  the  diligence  drew  up  in  the  nar- 
row street,  he  was  there  awaiting  it,  amid  a  buzzing 
crowd,  which  had  inexplicably  assembled  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  Yes;  there  was  assuredly 
news,  for  the  diligence  came  in  at  a  gallop  though 
there  was  no  one  on  it  but  the  driver.  He  shouted 
incoherently,  and  waved  his  whip  above  his  head. 
Then,  quite  suddenly,  perceiving  Colonel  Gilbert, 
he  snapped  his  lips  together,  threw  aside  the  reins, 
and  leapt  to  the  ground. 

"  Mon  colonel,"  he  said,  "  a  word  with  you." 
And  they  went  apart  into  a  doorway.  Three 
words  sufficed  to  tell  all  that  the  diligence  driver 
knew,  and  a  minute  later  the  colonel  hurried  to- 
ward the  stable  of  the  inn,  where  his  horse  stood 
ready.  He  rode  away  at  a  sharp  trot,  not  toward 
Bastia,  but  down  the  valley  of  Yasselot.  Although 
it  was  evident  that  he  was  pressed  for  time,  the 
colonel  did  not  hurry  his  horse,  but  rather  relieved 
it  when  he  could  by  dismounting,  at  every  sharp 
ascent,  and  riding  where  possible  in  the  deep  shade 
of  the  chestnut  trees.  He  turned  aside  from  the 
main  road  that  climbs  laboriously  to  Oletta  and 
Olmeta,  and  followed  the  river-path.  In  order  to 
gain  time  he  presently  left  the  patli,  and  made  a 


A  SUMMONS  120 

short  cut  across  the  open  land,  glancing  up  at  the 
Casa  Perucca  as  lie  did  so.  For  he  was  trespass- 
ing. 

He  was  riding  leisurely  enough  when  his  horse 
stumbled,  and,  in  recovering  itself,  clumsil}^  kicked 
a  great  stone  with  such  force  that  he  shattered  it  to 
a  hundred  pieces,  and  then  stood  on  three  legs, 
awkwardly  swinging  his  hoof  in  a  way  that  horses 
have  when  the  bone  has  been  jarred.  In  a  moment 
the  colonel  dismounted,  and  felt  the  injured  leg 
carefully. 

"My  friend,"  he  said  kindly,  "you  are  a  fool. 
What  are  you  doing  ?  Name  of  a  dog  " — he  paused, 
and  collecting  the  pieces  of  broken  quartz,  threw 
them  away  into  the  brush — "  name  of  a  dog,  what 
are  you  doing  ?  " 

With  an  odd  laugh  Colonel  Gilbert  climbed  into 
the  saddle  again,  and  although  he  looked  carefully 
up  at  the  Casa  Perucca,  he  failed  to  see  Mademoi- 
selle Brun's  grey  face  amid  the  grey  shadows  of  an 
olive  tree.  The  horse  limped  at  first,  but  presently 
forgot  his  grievance  against  the  big  stone  that  had 
lain  in  his  path.  The  colonel  laughed  to  himself  in 
a  singular  way  more  than  once  at  the  seemingly 
trivial  accident,  and  on  regaining  the  path,  turned 
in  his  saddle  to  look  again  at  the  spot  where  it  had 
occurred. 

On  nearing  the  chateau  he  urged  his  horse  to  a 
better  pace,  and  reached  the  great  door  at  a  sharp 
trot.  He  rang  the  bell  without  dismounting,  and 
leisurel}''  quitted  the  saddle.     But  the  summons  was 


130  THE  ISLE  OF  UKREST 

not  immediately  answered.  He  jerked  at  the  chain 
again,  and  rattled  on  the  door  with  the  handle  of 
his  riding-whip.  At  length  the  bolts  were  Avith- 
drawn,  and  the  heavy  door  opened  sufficiently  to 
admit  a  glance  of  that  evil  eye  which  the  peasants 
did  not  care  to  face. 

Before  speaking  the  colonel  made  a  step  forward, 
so  that  his  foot  must  necessarily  prevent  the  clos- 
ing of  the  door. 

"  The  Count  de  Vasselot,"  said  he. 

"  Take  away  your  foot,"  replied  Jean. 

The  colonel  noted  with  a  good-natured  surprise 
the  position  of  his  stout  riding-boot,  and  withdrew 

it. 

"The  Count  de  Vasselot,"  he  repeated.  "You 
need  not  trouble,  my  friend,  to  tell  any  lies  or  to 
look  at  me  with  your  evil  eye.  I  know  the  count 
is  here,  for  I  saw  him  in  Paris  just  before  he  came, 
and  I  spoke  to  him  at  this  very  door  a  few  weeks 
ago.  He  knows  me,  and  I  think  you  know  me  too, 
my  friend.  Tell  your  master  I  have  news  from 
France,     He  will  see  me." 

Jean  unceremoniously  closed  the  door,  and  the 
colonel,  who  was  moving  away  toward  his  horse, 
turned  sharply  on  his  heel  when  he  heard  the  bolts 
being  surreptitiously  pushed  back  again. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said,  and  he  stood  outside  the  door 
wdth  his  hand  at  his  moustache,  reflectively  follow- 
ing Jean's  movements,  "  they  are  singularly  careful 
to  keep  me  out,  these  people." 

He  had  not  long  to  wait,  however,  for  presently 


A  SUMMOKS  131 

Lory  came,  stepping  quickly  over  the  high  threshold 
aad  closing  the  door  behind  him.  But  Gilbert  was 
taller  than  de  Vasselot,  and  could  see  over  his  head. 
He  looked  right  through  the  house  into  the  little 
garden  on  the  terrace,  and  saw  some  one  there  who 
was  not  Jean.  And  the  light  of  surprise  was  still 
in  his  eyes  as  he  shook  hands  with  Lory  de  Vas- 
selot. 

"  You  have  news  for  me  ?  "  inquired  de  Yasselot. 

"  News  for  every  Frenchman." 

"  Ah ! " 

"Yes.  The  emperor  has  declared  war  against 
Germany." 

"  War  !  "  echoed  Lory,  with  a  sudden  laugh. 

"  Yes  ;  and  your  regiment  is  the  first  on  the  list." 

"  I  know,  I  know  ! "  cried  de  Vasselot,  his  eyes 
alight  with  excitement.  "  But  this  is  good  news 
that  you  tell  me.  How  can  I  thank  you  for  com- 
ing? I  must  get  home — I  mean  to  France — at 
once.  But  this  is  great  news ! "  He  seized  the 
colonel's  hand  and  shook  it.  "  Great  news,  mon 
colonel — great  news  ! " 

"  Good  news  for  you,  for  you  are  going.  But  I 
shall  be  left  behind  as  usual.  Yes ;  it  is  good  news 
for  you." 

"  And  for  France,"  cried  Lory,  with  both  hands 
outspread,  as  if  to  indicate  the  glory  that  was  await- 
ing them. 

"  For  France,"  said  the  colonel,  gravely,  "  it  can- 
not fail  to  be  bad.  But  we  must  not  think  of  that 
now." 


132  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  We  shall  never  think  of  it,"  answered  Lory. 
"This  is  Monday;  there  is  a  boat  for  Marseilles 
to-night.     I  leave  Bastia  to-night,  colonel." 

"  And  I  must  get  back  there,"  said  the  colonel, 
holding  out  his  hand. 

He  rode  thoughtfully  back  by  the  shortest  route 
through  the  Lancone  Defile,  and,  as  he  approached 
Bastia,  from  the  heights  behind  the  town  he  saw 
the  steamer  that  Avould  convey  Lory  to  France  com- 
ing northward  from  Bonifacio. 

"  Yes,"  he  said ;  he  will  leave  Bastia  to-night ; 
and  assuredly  the  good  God,  or  the  devil,  helps  me 
at  every  turn  of  this  affair." 


CHAPTEK  XIII 

WAK 

"  Since  all  that  I  can  ever  do  for  thee 
Is  to  do  nothing,  may'st  thou  never  see, 
Never  divine,  the  all  that  nothing  costeth  me ! " 

It  is  for  kings  to  declare  war,  for  nations  to  fight 
and  pay.  l^apoleon  III.  declared  war  against  Kus- 
sia,  and  France  fought  side  by  side  with  England 
in  the  Crimea,  not  because  the  gayest  and  most 
tragic  of  nations  had  aught  to  gain,  but  to  ensure 
an  upstart  emperor  a  place  among  the  monarch s  of 
Europe.  And  that  strange  alliance  was  merely  one 
move  in  a  long  game  played  by  a  consmnmate  in- 
triguer— a  game  which  began  disastrously  at  Bou- 
logne and  ended  disastrously^  at  Sedan,  and  yet  was 
the  most  daring  and  brilliant  feat  of  European 
statesmanship  that  has  been  carried  out  since  the 
adventurer's  great-uncle  went  to  St.  Helena. 

But  no  one  knows  why  in  July,  1870,  Napoleon 
III.  declared  war  against  Germany.  The  secret  of 
the  greatest  war  of  modern  times  lies  buried  in  the 
Imperial  mausoleum  at  Frognal. 

There  is  a  sort  of  surprise  which  is  caused  by 
the  sudden  arrival  of  the  long  expected,  and  Ger- 
many experienced  it  in  that  hot  midsummer,  for 
there  seemed  to  be  no  reason  why  war  should  break 

133 


13i  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

out  at  the  moment.  Sliortlj  before,  the  Spanish 
Government  had  offered  the  crown  to  the  heredi- 
tary Prince  Leopold  of  Hohenzollern,  and  France, 
ever  ready  to  see  a  grievance,  found  herself  suited. 
But  the  hereditary  prince  declined  that  throne,  and 
the  incident  seemed  about  to  close.  Then  quite 
suddenly  France  made  a  demand,  with  reference  to 
any  possible  recurrence  of  the  same  question,  which 
Germany  could  not  be  expected  to  grant.  It  was 
an  odd  demand  to  make,  and  in  a  flash  of  thought 
the  great  German  chancellor  saw  that  this  meant 
war.  Perhaps  he  had  been  waiting  for  it.  At  all 
events,  he  was  prepared  for  it,  as  were  the  silent 
soldier,  von  Roon,  and  the  gentle  tactician,  von 
Moltke.  These  gentlemen  were  away  for  a  holi- 
day, but  they  returned,  and,  as  history  tells,  had 
merely  to  fill  in  a  few  dates  on  already  prepared 
documents. 

If  France  was  not  ready  she  thought  herself  so, 
and  was  at  all  events  willing.  Nay,  she  was  so 
eager  that  she  shouted  when  she  should  have  held 
her  tongue.  And  who  shall  say  what  the  schemer 
of  the  Tuileries  thought  of  it  all  behind  that  pleas- 
ant smile,  those  dull  and  sphinx-like  eyes?  He 
had  always  believed  in  his  star,  had  always  known 
that  he  was  destined  to  be  great ;  and  now  perhaps 
he  knew  that  his  star  was  waning— that  the  great- 
ness was  past.  He  made  his  preparations  quietly. 
He  was  never  a  flustered  man,  this  nephew  of  the 
greatest  genius  the  world  has  seen.  Did  he  not  sit 
three  months  later  in  front  of  a  cottage  at  Donchfery 


WAR  135 

and  impassively  smoke  cigarette  after  cigarette 
while  waiting  for  Otto  von  Bismarck  ?  He  was  a 
fatalist. 

"  The  Moving  Finger  writes ;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on." 

And  it  must  be  remembered  to  his  credit  that  he 
asked  no  man's  pity — a  request  as  foolish  to  make 
for  a  fallen  emperor  as  for  the  ordinary  man  who 
has,  for  instance,  married  in  haste,  and  is  given  the 
leisure  of  a  whole  lifetime  in  which  to  repent.  For 
the  human  heart  is  incapable  of  bestowing  unadul- 
terated pity :  there  must  be  some  contempt  in  it. 
If  the  fall  of  Napoleon  III.  was  great,  let  it  be  re- 
membered that  few  place  themselves  by  their  own 
exertions  in  a  position  to  fall  at  all. 

The  declaration  of  war  was,  on  the  whole,  ac- 
claimed in  France ;  for  Frenchmen  are,  above  all 
men,  soldiers.  Does  not  the  whole  world  use 
French  terms  in  the  technicalities  of  warfare  ?  The 
majority  received  the  news  as  Lory  de  Vasselot  re- 
ceived it.  For  a  time  he  could  only  think  that  this 
was  a  great  and  glorious  moment  in  his  life.  He 
hurried  in  to  tell  his  father,  but  the  count  failed  to 
rise  to  the  occasion. 

"  War  ! "  he  said.  "  Yes,  there  have  been  many 
in  my  time.  They  have  not  afifected  me — or  my 
carnations." 

"  And  I  go  to  it  to-night,"  announced  Lory,  watch- 
ing his  father  with  eyes  suddenly  grave  and  anx- 
ious. 


136  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  count,  and  made  no  farther  com- 
ment. 

Then,  without  pausing  to  consider  his  own  mo- 
tives, Lory  hurried  up  to  the  Casa  Perucca  to  tell 
the  ladies  there  his  great  news.  He  must,  it  seemed, 
tell  somebody,  and  he  knew  no  one  else  within 
reach,  except  perhaps  the  Abbe  Susini,  who  did  not 
pretend  to  be  a  Frenchman. 

"  Is  it  peace  ? "  asked  Mademoiselle  Brun,  who, 
having  seen  him  climbing  the  steep  slope  in  the 
glaring  sunshine,  was  waiting  for  him  by  the  open 
side-door  when  he  arrived  there. 

He  took  her  withered  hand,  and  bowed  over  it  as 
gallantly  as  if  it  had  been  soft  and  young. 

"  "What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  at  her 
curiously. 

"  Well,  it  seems  that  the  Casa  Perucca  and  the 
Chateau  de  Vasselot  are  not  on  visiting  terms.  We 
only  call  on  each  other  with  a  gun." 

"  It  is  odd  that  you  should  have  asked  me  that," 
said  Lory,  "for  it  is  not  peace,  but  war." 

And  as  he  looked  at  her,  her  face  hardened,  her 
steady  eyes  wavered  for  once. 

"  Ah ! "  she  said,  her  hands  dropping  sharply 
against  her  dingy  black  dress  in  a  gesture  of  despair. 
"  Again ! " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,"  answered  Lory,  gently ;  for 
he  had  a  quick  intuition,  and  knew  at  a  glance  that 
war  must  have  hurt  this  woman  at  one  time  of  her 
life. 

She   stood    for  a   moment   tapping   the  ground 


WAR  137 

with  her  foot,  looking  reflectively  across  the  val- 
ley. 

"  Assuredly,"  she  said,  "  Frenchwomen  must  be 
the  bravest  women  in  the  world,  or  else  there  would 
never  be  a  light  heart  in  the  whole  country.  Come, 
let  us  go  in  and  tell  Denise.  It  is  Germany,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle.  They  have  long  wanted  it, 
and  we  are  obliging  them  at  last.  You  look  grave. 
It  is  not  bad  news  I  bring  you,  but  good." 

"  Women  like  soldiers,  but  they  hate  war,"  said 
mademoiselle,  and  walked  on  slowly  in  silence. 

After  a  pause,  she  turned  and  looked  at  him  as  if 
she  Avere  going  to  ask  him  a  question,  but  checked 
herself. 

"  I  almost  did  a  foolish  thing,"  she  explained, 
seeing  his  glance  of  surprise.  *'  I  was  going  to  ask 
you  if  you  were  going  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  am  going,"  he  answered,  with  a  laugh 
and  a  keen  glance  of  excitement.  "  War  is  a  nec- 
essary evil,  mademoiselle,  and  assists  promotion. 
W^hy  should  you  hate  it  ?  " 

"  Because  we  cannot  interfere  in  it,"  replied  Ma- 
demoiselle Brun,  with  a  snap  of  the  lips.  "  We 
shall  find  Denise  in  the  garden  to  the  north  of  the 
house,  picking  green  beans,  Monsieur  le  Comte," 
continued  Mademoiselle  Brun,  with  a  glance  in  his 
direction. 

"  Then  I  shall  have  time  to  help  with  the  beans 
before  I  go  to  the  war,"  answered  Lory  ;  and  they 
Avalked  on  in  silence. 


188  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

The  garden  was  but  half  cultivated — a  luxuriant 
thicket  of  fruit  and  weed,  of  trailing  vine  and  wild 
clematis.  The  air  of  it  was  heavy  with  a  hundred 
scents,  and,  in  the  shade,  was  cool,  and  of  a  mossy 
odour  rarely  found  in  Soutliern  seas. 

They  did  not  see  Denise  at  first,  and  then  sud- 
denly she  emerged  at  the  other  end  of  the  weed- 
grown  path  where  they  stood.  Lory  hurried  for- 
ward, hat  in  hand,  and  perceived  that  Denise  made 
a  movement,  as  if  to  go  back  into  the  shadow, 
which  was  immediately  restrained. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  did  not  follow  Lory,  but 
turned  back  toward  the  house. 

"  If  they  must  quarrel,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  they 
may  do  it  without  my  assistance." 

And  Denise  seemed,  indeed,  ready  to  fall  out 
with  her  neighbour,  for  she  came  toward  him  with 
heightened  colour  and  a  flash  of  annoyance  in  her 
eves. 

"  I  am  sorry  they  put  you  to  the  trouble  of  com- 
ing out  here,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  mademoiselle  ?  Because  I  find  you  pick- 
ing green  beans  ?  " 

"  No  ;  not  that.  But  one  has  one's  pride.  This 
is  my  garden.  I  keep  it !  Look  at  it !  "  And  she 
waved  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  contempt. 

De  Vasselot  looked  gravely  round  him.  Then, 
after  a  pause,  he  made  a  movement  of  the  deepest 
despair. 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  with  a  great  sigh, 
"  it  is  a  wilderness." 


WAK  139 

"  And  now  you  are  laughing  at  me." 

"  I,  mademoiselle  ? "  And  he  faced  her  tragic 
eyes. 

"  You  think  I  am  a  woman." 

De  Vasselot  spread  out  his  hands  in  deprecation, 
as  if,  this  time,  she  had  hit  the  mark. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  I  mean  you  think  we  are  only  capable  of  wear- 
ing pretty  clothes  and  listening  to  pretty  speeches, 
and  that  anything  else  is  beyond  our  grasp  alto- 
gether." 

"  Nothing  in  the  world,  mademoiselle,  is  beyond 
your  grasp,  except " — he  paused,  and  looked  round 
him — "  except  a  spade,  perhaps,  and  that  is  what 
this  garden  wants." 

They  were  very  grave  about  it,  and  sat  down  on 
a  rough  seat  built  by  Mattel  Perucca,  who  had 
come  there  in  the  hot  weather. 

"  Then  what  is  to  be  done  ?  "  said  Denise,  simply. 

For  the  French — the  most  intellectual  subtle  peo- 
ple of  the  world — have  a  certain  odd  simplicity 
which  seems  to  have  survived  all  the  changes  and 
chances  of  monarchy,  republic,  and  empire. 

"  I  do  not  quite  know.     Have  you  not  a  man  ?  " 

"  I  have  nobody,  except  a  decrepit  old  man,  who 
is  half  an  imbecile,"  said  Denise,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"  I  get  my  provisions  surreptitiously  by  the  hand  of 
Madame  Andrei.  No  one  else  comes  near  the  Casa. 
We  are  in  a  state  of  siege.  I  dare  not  go  into  01- 
meta  ;  but  I  am  holding  on  because  j^'ou  advised  me 
not  to  sell." 


140  THE  ISLE  OF  UisREiST 


"  I,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  in  Paris.     Have  you  forgotten  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  luovy,  slowly — "  no  ;  I  have  not 
forgotten.  But  no  one  takes  my  advice — indeed, 
no  one  asks  it — except  about  a  horse.  They  think 
I  know  about  a  horse.''  And  Lory  smiled  to  him- 
self at  the  thought  of  his  proud  position. 

"  But  you  surely  meant  what  you  said  ?  "  asked 
Denise. 

"  Oh  yes.  But  you  honour  me  too  much  by  tak- 
ing my  opinion  thus  seriously  without  question, 
mademoiselle." 

Denise  was  looking  at  him  with  her  clear,  search- 
ing eyes,  rather  veiled  by  a  suggestion  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

"  I  thought — I  thought  you  seemed  so  decided, 
so  sure  of  your  own  opinion,"  she  said  doubtfully. 

De  Yasselot  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  he 
turned  to  her  quickly,  impulsively,  confidentially. 

"  Listen,"  he  said.  "  I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  I 
said  '  Don't  sell.'  I  say  '  Don't  sell '  still.  And  I 
have  not  a  shred  of  reason  for  doing  so.     There ! " 

Denise  was  not  a  person  who  was  easily  led.  She 
laughed  at  the  stern,  strong  Mademoiselle  Brun  to 
her  face,  and  treated  her  opinion  with  a  gay  con- 
tempt.    She  had  never  yet  been  led. 

"  No,"  she  said,  and  seemed  residj  to  dispense 
with  reasons.  "  You  will  not  sell,  vourself  ? "  she 
said,  after  a  pause. 

"  No ;  I  cannot  sell,"  he  said  quickly ;  and  she 
remembered  his  answer  long  afterward. 


WAK  141 

After  a  pause  he  explained  farther. 

"  I  tell  you  frankly,"  he  said  earnestly,  for  he 
Avas  always  either  very  earnest  or  very  gay — "  I 
tell  you  frankly,  when  we  both  received  an  offer  to 
buy,  I  thought  there  must  be  some  reason  why  the 
places  are  worth  buying,  but  I  have  found  none." 

He  paused,  and,  looking  round,  remembered  that 
this  also  was  his,  and  did  not  belong  to  Denise  at 
all,  who  claimed  it,  and  held  it  with  such  a  high 
hand, 

"  As  Corsica  at  present  stands,  Perucca  and  Yas- 
selot  are  valueless,  mademoiselle.  I  claim  the  hon- 
our of  being  in  the  same  boat  with  you.  And  if 
the  empire  falls — lo7ijou7-  la  paix  !  " 

And  he  sketched  a  grand  upheaval  with  a  wave 
of  his  two  hands  in  the  air. 

"  But  why  should  the  empire  fall  ?  "  asked  Denise, 
sharply. 

"  Ah,  but  I  have  the  head  of  a  sparrow  !  "  cried 
Lory,  and  he  smote  himself  grievously  on  the  fore- 
head. "  I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  Yerj  thing  that  I 
came  to  tell  you.  Which  is  odd,  for  until  I  came 
into  this  garden  I  could  think  of  nothing  else.  I 
was  ready  to  shout  it  to  the  trees.  War  has  been 
declared,  mademoiselle." 

"  War !  "  said  Denise  ;  and  she  drew  in  one  whist- 
ling breath  through  her  teeth,  as  one  may  Avho  has 
been  burnt  by  contact  with  heated  metal,  and  sat 
looking  straight  in  front  of  her.  "  When  do  you  go. 
Monsieur  le  Comte  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  steady  voice, 
after  a  moment. 


142  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

"  To-night." 

He  rose,  and  stood  before  her,  looking  at  the 
tangled  garden  with  a  frown. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said,  with  a  sudden  laugh,  "  if  the 
emperor  had  only  consulted  me,  he  would  not  have 
done  it  just  yet.  I  want  to  go,  of  course,  for  I  am 
a  soldier.  But  I  do  not  want  to  go  now.  I  should 
have  liked  to  see  things  more  settled,  here  in  Olmeta. 
If  the  empire  falls,  mademoiselle,  you  must  return 
to  France ;  remember  that.  I  should  have  liked  to 
have  offered  you  my  poor  assistance ;  but  I  cannot 
— I  must  go.  There  are  others,  however.  There 
is  Mademoiselle  Brun,  with  a  man's  heart  in  that 
little  body.  And  there  is  the  Abbe  Susini.  Yes ; 
you  can  trust  him  as  you  can  trust  a  little  English 

fighting  terrier.     Tell   him JSTo ;   I  will  tell 

him.  He  is  a  Vasselot,  mademoiselle,  but  I  shall 
make  him  a  Perucca." 

He  held  out  his  hand  gaily  to  say  good-bye. 

"  And — stay !  Will  you  write  to  me  if  you 
want  me,  mademoiselle  ?  I  may  be  able  to  get  to 
you." 

Denise  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  as  was  her  wont 
with  men  and  women  alike. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Mademoiselle  Brun  came 
into  the  garden.  She  looked  round  but  saw  no 
one.  Approaching  the  spot  where  she  had  left 
Denise,  she  found  the  basket  with  a  few  beans  in 
it,  and  Denise's  gloves  lying  there.     She  knew  that 


WAR  143 

Lory  had  gone,  but  still  she  could  see  Denise  no- 
where. There  were  a  hundred  places  in  the  garden 
where  any  who  did  not  wish  to  be  discovered  could 
find  concealment. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  took  up  the  basket  and  con- 
tinued to  pick  the  French  beans, 

"  My  poor  child  !  my  poor  child  !  "  she  muttered 
twice,  with  a  hard  face. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

GOSSIP 

"  Cupid  is  a  casuist, 
A  mystic,  and  a  cabalist. 
Can  your  lurking  thought  surprise. 
And  interpret  your  device  ?  " 

That  which  has  been  taken  by  the  sword  must 
be  held  by  the  sword.  In  Corsica  the  blade  is 
sheathed,  but  it  has  never  yet  been  laid  aside. 
The  quick  events  of  July  thrust  this  sheathed 
weapon  into  the  hand  of  Colonel  Gilbert,  who,  as 
he  himself  had  predicted,  was  left  behind  in  the 
general  exodus. 

"  If  you  are  placed  in  command  at  Bastia,  how 
many,  or  how  few  men  will  suffice  ?  "  asked  the  civil 
authority,  who  was  laid  on  the  shelf  by  the  out- 
break of  war. 

And  Colonel  Gilbert  named  what  appeared  to  be 
an  absurd  minimum. 

"  We  must  think  of  every  event ;  things  may  go 
badly,  the  fortune  of  war  may  turn  against  us." 

"  Still  I  can  do  it,"  answered  the  colonel. 

"  The  empire  may  fall,  and  then  Corsica  will 
blaze  up  like  tow." 

"  Still  I  can  do  it,"  repeated  the  colonel. 

It  is  the  natural  instinct  of  man  to  strike  while 

144 


GOSSIP  145 

liis  blood  is  up,  and  the  national  spirit  on  either  side 
of  the  Rhine  was  all  for  immediate  action.  The 
leaders  themselves  were  anxious  to  begin,  so  that 
they  might  finish  before  the  winter.  So  the  prep- 
arations were  pushed  forward  in  Germany  with  a 
methodical  haste,  a  sane  and  deliberate  foresight. 
In  France  it  was  more  a  question  of  sentiment — the 
invincibility  of  French  arms,  the  heroism  of  French 
soldiers,  the  Napoleonic  legend.  But  while  these 
abstract  aids  to  warfare  may  make  a  good  individual 
soldier  of  that  untidy  little  man  in  the  red  trousers, 
who  has,  in  his  time,  overrun  all  Europe,  it  will  not 
move  great  armies  or  organise  a  successful  campaign. 
For  the  French  soldier  must  have  some  one  to  fight 
for — some  one  towering  man  in  whom  he  trusts, 
who  can  turn  to  good  account  some  of  the  best 
fighting  material  the  human  race  has  yet  produced. 
And  Napoleon  III.  was  not  such  a  man. 

It  is  almost  certain  that  he  counted  on  receiving 
assistance  from  Austria  or  Italy,  and  when  this  was 
withheld,  the  disease-stricken,  suffering  man  must 
assuredly  have  realised  that  his  star  was  sinking. 
He  had  made  the  mistake  of  putting  off  this  great 
war  too  long.  He  should  have  fought  it  years 
earlier,  before  the  Prussians  had  made  sure  of  those 
steady,  grumbling  Bavarians,  who  bore  the  brunt  of 
all  the  fighting,  before  his  own  hand  was  faltering 
at  the  helm,  and  the  face  of  God  was  turned  away 
from  the  Napoleonic  dynasty. 

The  emperor  was  no  tactician,  but  he  knew  the 
human  heart.     He  knew  that  at  any  cost  France 


146  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

must  lead  off  with  a  victory,  not  only  for  the  sake 
of  the  little  man  in  the  red  trousers,  but  to  impress 
Avatching  Europe,  and  perhaps  snatch  an  ally  from 
among  the  hesitating  powers.  And  the  result  was 
Saarbrtick.  The  news  of  it  filtered  through  to 
Colonel  Gilbert,  who  was  now  quartered  in  the 
grey,  picturesque  Watrin  barracks  at  Bastia,  which 
jut  out  between  the  old  harbour  and  the  plain  of 
Biguglia.  The  colonel  did  not  believe  half  of  it. 
It  is  always  safe  to  subtract  from  good  news.  But 
he  sat  down  at  once  and  wrote  to  Denise  Lange. 
He  had  not  seen  her,  had  not  communicated  with 
her,  since  he  had  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  she 
had  refused.  He  was  old  enough  to  be  her  father. 
He  had  asked  her  to  marr}^  him  because  she  would 
not  sell  Perucca,  and  he  wanted  that  estate  ;  which 
Avas  not  the  right  motive,  but  it  is  the  usual  one 
with  men  who  are  past  the  foolishness  of  3^outh — 
that  foolishness  v/hich  is  better  than  all  the  wisdom 
of  the  ages. 

From  having  had  nothing  to  do.  Colonel  Gilbert 
found  himself  thrown  into  a  whirl  of  work,  or  what 
would  have  been  a  whirl  with  a  man  less  calm  and 
placid.  Yery  much  at  ease,  in  white  linen  clothes, 
he  sat  in  his  room  in  the  bastion,  and  transacted 
the  affairs  of  his  command  with  a  leisurely  good 
nature  which  showed  his  complete  grasp  of  the 
situation. 

With  regard  to  Denise,  tliis  middle-aged,  cynical 
Frenchman  grasped  the  situation  also.  He  was 
slowly  and  surely  falling  in  love  with  her.     And 


GOSSIP  147 

she  herself  had  given  him  the  first  push  down 
that  facile  descent  when  she  had  refused  to  be  his 
wife. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  wrote,  "  to  quarrel  is,  I  sup- 
pose, in  the  air  of  Corsica,  and  when  we  parted  at 
your  gate  some  time  ago,  I  am  afraid  I  left  you  har- 
bouring a  feeling  of  resentment  against  me.  At  this 
time,  and  in  the  adverse  days  that  I  foresee  must 
inevitably  be  in  store  for  France,  none  can  afford 
to  part  with  friends  who  by  any  means  can  preserve 
them.  In  our  respective  positions,  you  and  I  must 
rise  above  small  differences  of  opinion  ;  and  I  place 
myself  unreservedly  at  your  service.  I  write  to 
tell  you  that  I  have  this  morning  good  news  from 
France.  We  have  won  a  small  victory  at  Saar- 
briick.  So  far,  so  good.  But,  in  case  of  a  reverse, 
there  is  only  too  much  reason  to  fear  that  internal 
disturbances  will  arise  in  France,  and  consequently 
in  this  unfortunate  island.  It  is,  therefore,  my 
duty  to  urge  upon  you  the  necessity  of  quitting 
Perucca  without  delay.  If  you  will  not  consent  to 
leave  the  island,  come  at  all  events  into  Bastia, 
where,  at  a  few  minutes'  notice,  I  shall  be  able  to 
place  you  in  a  position  of  safety.  I  trust  I  am  not 
one  who  is  given  to  exaggerating  danger.  Ask 
Mademoiselle  Brun,  who  has  known  me  since,  as  a 
young  man,  I  had  the  privilege  of  serving  under 
your  father,  a  general  who  had  the  gift  of  drawing 
out  from  those  about  him  such  few  soldierly  quali- 
ties as  they  might  possess." 

Denise  received  this  letter  by  post  the  next  morn- 


us  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

iug,  and,  after  reading  it  twice,  handed  it  to  Made- 
moiselle Brun,  who  was  much  too  wise  a  woman  to 
ask  for  an  explanation  of  those  parts  of  it  which 
she  did  not  comprehend.  Indeed,  she  was  manlike 
enough  to  pass  on  with  an  unimpaired  understand- 
ing to  the  second  part  of  the  letter,  whereas  most 
women  would  have  been  so  consumed  by  curiosity 
as  to  be  unable  to  give  more  than  half  their  mind 
to  the  colonel's  further  news. 

"  And ?  "  inquired  mademoiselle — a  French- 
woman's way  of  asking  a  thousand  questions  in 
one.  Mademoiselle  Brun  knew  all  the  conversa- 
tional tricks  that  serve  to  economise  words. 

"  It  is  all  based  upon  supposition,"  said  the  erst- 
while mathematical  instructress  of  the  school  in  the 
Rue  du  Cherche-Midi.  "  It  will  be  time  enough  to 
arrive  at  a  decision  when  the  reverse  comes.  The 
Count  de  Vasselot  or  the  Abbe  Susini,  will  no  doubt, 
warn  us  in  time." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"  But,  if  you  like,  I  will  write  to  the  Count  de 
Vasselot,"  said  Denise,  in  the  voice  of  one  making 
a  concession. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  thought  deepl}'-  before  reply- 
ing. It  is  so  easy  to  take  a  wrong  turning  at  the 
cross-roads  of  life,  and  assuredly  Denise  stood  at  a 
carrefour  now. 

"  Yes,"  said  mademoiselle  at  length ;  "it  would 
be  well  to  do  that." 

And  Denise  went  away  to  write  the  letter  that 
Lory  had  asked  for  in  case  she  wanted  him.     She 


GOSSIP  149 

did  not  show  it  to  Mademoiselle  Brun,  but  went 
out  and  posted  it  herself  in  the  little  square  box, 
painted  Avhite,  affixed  to  the  white  Avail  on  the 
highroad,  and  just  Avithin  sight  of  Olmeta.  When 
she  returned  she  went  into  the  garden  again,  AA^here 
she  spent  so  great  a  part  of  these  hot  days  that  her 
face  AA'as  burnt  to  a  healthy  broAAm,  Avhich  was  in 
keeping  Avitli  her  fearless  eyes  and  carriage.  Made- 
moiselle Brun,  on  the  other  hand,  spent  most  of  her 
days  indoors,  divining  perhaps  that  Denise  had  of 
late  fallen  into  an  unconscious  love  of  solitude. 

Denise  returned  to  the  house  at  luncheon-time, 
entered  by  the  windoAv,  and  caught  Mademoiselle 
Brun  hastily  shutting  an  atlas. 

"  I  Avas  wondering,"  she  said,  "  Avhere  Saarbriick 
might  be,  and  Avhether  any  one  Ave  knoAv  had  time 
to  get  there  before  the  battle." 

"  Yes." 

"But  Colonel  Gilbert  will  tell  us." 

"Colonel  Gilbert?"  inquired  Denise,  turning 
rather  sharply. 

"  Yes.     I  think  he  Avill  come  to-day  or  to-mor- 

rOAA\" 

And  Mademoiselle  Brun  was  right.  In  the  full 
lieat  of  the  afternoon  the  great  bell  at  the  gate 
gave  forth  a  single  summons ;  for  the  colonel  Avas 
always  gentle  in  his  ways. 

"  I  made  an  opportunit}^,"  he  said,  "  to  escape 
from  the  barracks  this  hot  day." 

But  he  looked  cool  enough,  and  greeted  Denise 
with  his  usual  leisureh'',  friendly  bow.     His  manner 


150  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

conveyed,  better  than  any  words,  that  she  need  feed 
no  uneasiness  on  his  account,  and  could  treat  him 
literally  at  his  word,  as  a  friend. 

"  In  order  to  tell  you,  with  all  reserve,  the  good 
news,"  he  continued. 

"  With  all  reserve !  "  echoed  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"  Good  news  in  a  French  newspaper,  mademoi- 
selle  "  And  he  finished  with  a  gesture  elo- 
quent of  the  deepest  distrust. 

"I  was  wondering,"  said  Mademoiselle  Brun, 
speaking  slowly,  and  in  a  manner  that  demanded 
for  the  time  the  colonel's  undivided  attention, 
"  whether  our  friend  the  Count  de  Vasselot  could 
have  been  at  Saarbriick." 

"  The  Count  de  Vasselot,"  said  Colonel  Gilbert, 
with  an  air  of  friendly  surprise.  "  Has  he  quitted 
his  beloved  chateau  ?  He  is  so  attached  to  that  old 
house,  you  know." 

"  He  has  joined  his  regiment,"  replied  Mademoi- 
selle Brun,  upon  whom  the  burden  of  the  conversa- 
tion fell ;  for  Denise  had  gone  to  the  open  window, 
and  was  closing  the  shutters  against  the  sun. 

"  Ah !  Then  I  can  tell  you  that  he  was  not  at 
Saarbriick.  The  count's  regiment  is  not  in  that 
part  of  the  country.  I  was  forgetting  that  he  was 
a  soldier.  He  is,  by  the  way,  your  nearest  neigh- 
bour." 

The  colonel  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  went  to  the 
window — not  to  that  where  Denise  was  standing, 
but  to  the  other,  of  which  the  sun-blinds  were  only 
half  closed. 


GOSSIP  151 

"  You  can,  of  course,  see  the  chateau  from  here?" 
he  said  musingly. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mademoiselle  Brun,  with  an  un- 
easy glance. 

What  was  Colonel  Gilbert  going  to  say  ? 

He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  into  the 
A^alley,  while  Denise  and  Mademoiselle  Brun  waited. 

"And  you  have  perceived  nothing  that  would 
seem  to  confirm  the  gossip  current  regarding  your 
— enemy  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  good-natured,  depre- 
catory laugh. 

"  What  gossip  ?  "  asked  mademoiselle,  bluntly. 

The  colonel  shrugged  his  shoulders  without  look- 
ing round. 

"  Oh,"  he  answered,  "  one  does  not  believe  all  one 
hears.  Besides,  there  are  many  who  think  that  in 
such  a  remote  spot  as  Corsica,  it  is  not  necessary  to 
observe  the  ordinary — what  shall  I  say  ? — etiquette 
of  society." 

He  laughed  uneasily,  and  spread  out  his  hands  as 
if,  for  his  part,  he  would  rather  dismiss  the  subject. 
But  Mademoiselle  Brun  could  be  frankly  feminine 
at  times. 

"  What  is  the  gossip  to  which  you  refer  ? "  she 
asked  again. 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it — though  I, 
myself,  have  seen.  Well,  mademoiselle — you  will 
excuse  my  frankness  ? — they  say  there  is  some  one 
in  the  chateau — some  one  whom  the  count  wishes 
to  conceal,  you  understand." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  mademoiselle,  indifferently. 


J  52  THE  ISLE  OF  IJKREST 

Denise  said  notliina:.  Sho  was  looking;  out  of  the 
window  with  a  face  as  hard  as  the  face  of  Made- 
moiselle Brun.  She  looked  at  her  watch,  seemed 
to  make  a  quick  mental  calculation,  and  then  turned 
and  spoke  to  Colonel  Gilbert  with  steady,  smiling 
eyes. 

"  You  have  not  told  us  your  war  news  yet,"  she 
said. 

So  he  told  them  what  he  knew,  which,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  did  not  amount  to  much.  Then  he  took 
his  leave,  and  rode  home  in  the  cool  of  the  evening 
— a  solitary,  brooding  man,  who  had  missed  his 
way  somehow  early  on  the  road  of  life,  and  lacked 
perhaps  the  strength  of  mind  to  go  back  and  try 
again. 

Denise  said  good-bj^e  to  him  in  the  same  friendly 
spirit  which  he  had  inaugurated.  She  was  stand- 
ing with  her  back  to  the  window  from  which  she 
had  looked  down  on  to  the  chateau  of  Yasselot 
while  Colonel  Gilbert  related  his  idle  gossip  respect- 
ing that  house.  And  Mademoiselle  Brun,  who  re- 
membered such  trifles,  noted  that  she  never  looked 
out  of  that  window  again,  but  avoided  it  as  one 
would  avoid  a  cupboard  where  there  is  a  skeleton. 

Denise,  who  consulted  her  watch  again  so  soon 
as  the  colonel  had  left,  wrote  anotlier  letter,  which 
she  addressed  in  an  open  envelope  to  the  postmaster 
at  Marseilles,  and  enclosed  a  number  of  stamps. 
She  went  out  on  to  the  highroad,  and  waited  there 
in  the  shade  of  the  trees  for  the  diligence,  which 
would  pass  at  four  o'clock  on  its  way  to  Bastia. 


GOSSIP  153 

The  driver  of  the  diligence,  like  many  who  are 
on  the  road  and  have  but  a  passing  glimpse  of  many 
men  and  many  things,  was  a  good-natured  man,  and 
willingly  charged  himself  with  Denise's  commis- 
sion. For  that  which  she  had  enclosed  was  not  a 
letter,  but  a  telegram  to  be  despatched  from  Mar- 
seilles on  the  arrival  of  the  mail  steamer  there.  It 
was  addressed  to  Lory  de  Vasselot  at  the  Cercle 
Militaire  in  Paris,  and  contained  the  words  — 

"  Please  return  unopened  the  letter  posted  to- 
day." 


CHAPTER  XV 

WAE 

When  half-gods  go. 
The  gods  arrive." 

"  Then,"  said  the  Baroness  de  Melide,  "  I  shall 
go  down  to  St.  Germain  en  Pre,  and  say  my 
prayers."     And  she  rang  for  her  carriage. 

On  all  great  occasions  in  life,  the  Baroness  de 
Melide  had  taken  her  overburdened  heart  in  a  car- 
riage and  pair  to  St.  Germain  en  Pre.  For  she  had 
always  had  a  carriage  and  pair  for  the  mere  ring- 
ing of  a  bell  ever  since  her  girlhood,  when  the 
Baron  de  Melide  had,  with  much  assistance  from 
her,  laid  his  name  and  fortune  at  her  feet.  When 
she  had  helped  him  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife,  she 
had  ordered  the  carriage  thus,  as  she  was  ordering 
it  now  in  the  month  of  August,  18Y0,  on  being  told 
by  her  husband  that  the  battle  of  Worth  had  been 
fought  and  lost,  and  that  Lory  de  Vasselot  was 
safe. 

"  The  Madeleine  is  nearer,"  suggested  the  baron, 
a  large  man,  with  a  vacant  face  which  concealed  a 
very  mine  of  common  sense,  "  and  you  could  give 
me  a  lift  as  far  as  the  club." 

154 


WAK  155 

"  The  Madeleine  is  all  very  well  for  a  wedding 
or  a  funeral  or  a  great  public  festivity  of  any  sort," 
said  the  baroness,  with  a  harmless,  light  manner  of 
talking  of  grave  subjects  which  is  a  closed  book  to 
the  ordinary  stolid  British  mind ;  "  but  when  one 
has  a  prayer,  there  is  nowhere  like  St.  Germain  en 
Pre,  which  is  old  and  simple  and  dirty,  so  that  one 
feels  like  a  poor  woman.  I  shall  put  on  an  old 
dress." 

She  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  capable  nod, 
as  if  to  convey  the  comforting  assurance  that  he 
could  leave  this  matter  entirely  to  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  baron ;  "  do  as  you  will." 

Which  permission  the  world  was  pleased  to  con- 
sider superfluous  in  the  present  marital  case. 

"  It  is,"  he  said,  "  the  occasion  for  a  prayer ;  and 
say  a  word  for  France.  And  Lory  is  safe — one  of 
very,  very  few  survivors.  Kemember  that  in  your 
prayers,  ma  mie,  and  remember  me." 

"I  will  see  about  it,"  answered  the  baroness. 
"  If  I  have  time,  I  will  perhaps  put  in  a  word  for 
one  who  is  assuredly  a  great  stupid — no  name  men- 
tioned, you  understand." 

So  the  Baroness  de  Melide  went  to  the  gloomy 
old  church  of  her  choice,  and  sent  up  an  incoherent 
prayer,  such  as  were  arising  from  all  over  France 
at  this  time.  On  returning  by  the  Boulevard  St. 
Germain,  she  met  a  friend,  a  woman  whose  hus- 
band had  fallen  at  AYeissembourg,  who  gave  her 
more  news  from  the  front.  The  streets  were 
crowded  and  yet  idle.     The  men  stood  apart  in 


156  THE  ISLE  OF  U^sKEST 

groups,  talking  in  a  low  voice :  the  women  stood 
apart  and  watched  them — for  it  is  only  in  times  of 
peace  that  the  women  manage  France. 

The  baroness  went  home,  nervous,  ill  at  ease. 
She  hardly  noticed  that  the  door  was  held  open  by 
a  maidservant.  The  men  had  all  gone  out  for 
news — some  to  enrol  themselves  in  the  National 
Guard.  She  went  up  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
there,  seated  at  her  writing-table  with  his  back 
turned  toward  her,  was  Lory  de  Yasselot.  All  the 
brightness  had  gone  from  his  uniform.  He  turned 
as  she  entered  the  room. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  she  said,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  What  is  what  ?  "  he  answered  gravely. 

"  Why,  your  face,"  said  the  baroness.  "  Look — 
look  at  it !  "  She  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  turned 
him  toward  a  mirror  half  hidden  in  hot-house 
flowers.  "  Look  !  "  she  cried  again.  '*  Mon  Dieu  ! 
it  is  a  tragedy,  your  face.     What  is  it  ?  " 

Lory  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  was  at  Worth,"  he  explained,  "  two  days  ago. 
I  suppose  Worth  will  be  written  for  life  in  the  face 
of  ever}'^  Frenchman  who  was  there.  They  were 
three  to  one.  They  are  three  to  one  wherever  we 
turn." 

He  sat  down  again  at  the  writing-table,  and  the 
baroness  stood  behind  him. 

"  And  this  is  war,"  she  said,  tapping  slowly  on 
the  carpet  with  her  foot. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and,  noting  a 
quick  movement  of  withdrawal,  glanced  down. 


WAR  157 

"  Ach  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  wliisper,  as  she  drew 
back. 

The  shoulder  and  sleeve  of  his  tunic  were  stained 
a  deep  brown.  The  gold  lace  was  green  in  places 
and  sticky.  In  an  odd  silence  she  unbuttoned  her 
glove,  and  laid  it  quietly  aside. 

"  It  seems,  mon  ami,  that  we  have  only  been  play- 
ing at  life  up  to  now,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 

And  Lory  did  not  answer  her.  He  had  several 
letters  lying  before  him,  and  had  taken  up  his  pen 
again. 

"  What  brings  you  to  Paris  ?  "  asked  the  baroness, 
suddenly. 

"The  emperor,"  he  answered.  "It  is  a  queer 
story,  and  I  can  tell  you  part  of  it.  After  AVorth, 
I  was  given  a  staff  appointment — and  why  ?  Be- 
cause my  occupation  was  gone  ;  I  had  no  men  left." 
With  a  quick  gesture  he  described  the  utter  anni- 
hilation of  his  troop.  "  And  I  was  sent  into  Metz 
with  despatches.  While  I  was  still  there — judge  of 
my  surprise  ! — the  emperor  sent  for  me.  You  know 
him.  He  was  sitting  at  a  table,  and  looked  a  big 
man.  Afterward,  when  he  stood  up,  I  saw  he  was 
small.  He  bowed  as  I  entered  the  room — for  he  is 
polite  even  to  the  meanest  private  of  a  line  regi- 
ment— and  as  he  bowed  he  winced.  Even  that 
movement  gave  him  pain.  And  then  he  smiled, 
with  an  effort.  '  Monsieur  de  Yasselot,'  he  said  ; 
and  I  bowed.  '  A  Corsican,'  he  went  on.  '  Yes, 
sire.'  Then  he  took  up  a  pen,  and  examined  it.  He 
wanted  something  to  look  at,  though  he  might  safely 


158  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

have  looked  at  me.  He  could  look  any  man  in  the 
face  at  any  time,  for  his  eyes  tell  no  tales.  The}'' 
are  dull  and  veiled ;  you  know  them,  for  you  have 
spoken  to  him  often." 

"  Yes ;  and  I  have  seen  the  great  snake  at  the 
Jardin  d'Acclimatation,"  answered  the  Baroness  de 
Melide,  quietly. 

"Then,"  continued  Lory,  "still  looking  at  the 
pen,  he  spoke  slowly  as  if  he  had  thought  it  all  out 
before  I  entered  the  room.  *  When  my  uncle  fell 
upon  evil  times  he  naturally  turned  to  his  fellow- 
countrymen.'  'Yes,  sire.'  'I  do  not  know  you, 
Monsieur  de  Vasselot,  but  I  know  your  name.  I 
am  going  to  trust  you  entirely.  I  want  you  to  go 
to  Paris  for  me.'  " 

"  And  that  is  all  you  are  going  to  tell  me  ?  "  said 
the  baroness. 

"  That  is  all  I  can  tell  you.  Whatever  he  may 
be,  he  is  more  than  a  brave  man — he  is  a  stoic.  I 
arrived  an  hour  ago,  and  went  to  the  club  for  my 
letters,  but  I  did  not  dare  to  go  in,  because  it  is  evi- 
dent that  I  am  from  the  front.  Look  at  my  clothes. 
That  is  why  I  come  here  and  present  myself  before 
you  as  I  am.  I  must  beg  your  hospitality  for  a  few 
hours  and  the  run  of  your  writing-table." 

The  baroness  nodded  her  head  repeatedly  as  she 
looked  at  him.  It  was  not  only  from  his  gold-laced 
uniform  that  the  brightness  had  gone,  but  from 
himself.  His  manner  was  abrupt.  He  was  almost 
stern.     This,  again,  was  war. 

"  You  know  that  now,  as  always,  our  house  is 


WAR  159 

yours,"  she  said  quietly  ;  for  it  is  not  all  light  hearts 
that  have  nothing  in  them. 

Then,  being  a  practical  French  woman — and  there 
is  no  more  practical  being  in  the  world — she  rang 
for  luncheon. 

"  One  sees,"  she  said,  "  that  you  are  hungry.  One 
must  eat  though  empires  fall." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Lory,  turning  sharply  to  look  at  her. 
"  You  talk  like  that  in  Paris,  do  you  ?  " 

"  In  the  streets,  my  cousin,  they  speak  plainer 
language  than  that.  But  Henri  will  tell  you  what 
they  are  saying  on  the  pavement.  I  have  sent  for 
him  to  the  club  to  come  home  to  luncheon.  He 
forgives  me  much,  that  poor  man,  but  he  would 
never  forgive  me  if  I  did  not  tell  him  that  you  were 
in  Paris." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Lory.  "  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  him.  There  are  things  which  he  ought  to 
know,  which  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  You  think  I  am  not  discreet,"  said  the  baroness, 
slowly  drawing  the  pins  from  her  smart  hat. 

Lory  looked  up  at  her  with  a  laugh,  which  was 
perhaps  what  she  wanted,  for  there  is  no  cunning 
like  the  cunning  of  a  woman  who  seeks  to  charm  a 
man  from  one  humour  to  another.  And  when  the 
baroness  had  first  seen  Lory,  she  thought  that  his 
heart  was  broken — by  "Worth. 

"  You  are  beautiful,  but  not  discreet,"  he  answered. 

"  That  is  the  worst  of  men^"  she  said  reflectively, 
as  she  laid  her  hat  aside — "  they  always  want  an 
impossible  combination." 


160  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

She  looked  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder  and 
laughed,  for  she  saw  that  she  was  gaining  her  point. 
The  quiet  of  this  luxurious  house,  her  own  person- 
ality, the  subtle  domesticity  of  her  action  in  taking 
off  her  hat  in  his  presence — all  these  were  soothing 
a  mind  rasped  and  torn  by  battle  and  defeat.  But 
there  was  something  yet  which  she  had  not  grasped, 
and  she  knew  it.  She  glanced  at  the  letters  on  the 
table  before  him.  As  if  the  thought  were  trans- 
mitted across  the  room  to  him,  Lory  took  up  an 
open  telegram,  and  read  it  with  a  puzzled  face.  He 
half  turned  toward  her  as  if  about  to  speak,  but 
closed  his  lips  again. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  baroness,  lightly.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"It  is,"  he  explained,  after  a  pause,  " that  I  have 
had  so  little  to  do  with  women." 

"  Except  me,  mon  cousin,"  said  the  baroness,  com- 
ing nearer  to  the  Avri ting-table. 

"  Except  you,  ma  cousine,"  he  answered,  turning 
in  his  chair  and  taking  her  hand. 

He  glanced  up  at  her  with  eyes  that  would  ap- 
pear to  the  ordinary  British  mind  to  express  a 
passionate  devotion,  eminently  French  and  thrill- 
ing and  terrible,  but  which  really  reflected  only  a 
very  honest  and  brotherl}'  affection.  For  a  French- 
man never  hates  or  loves  as  much  as  he  thinks  he 
does. 

"  Well,"  said  the  baroness,  practically,  "  what  is 
it?" 

"  At  the  club,"  explained  Lory,  "  I  found  a  letter 
and  a  telegram  from  Corsica." 


WAR  161 

"  Both  from  Denise  ?  "  asked  the  baroness,  rather 
bluntly. 

"  Both  from  Mademoiselle  Lange.  See  how  things 
hinge  upon  a  trifling  chance — how  much,  we  cannot 
tell !  I  happened  to  open  the  telegram  first,  and  it 
told  me  to  return  the  letter  unopened." 

As  he  spoke  he  handed  her  the  grey  sheet  upon 
which  were  pasted  the  narrow  blue  paper  ribbons 
bearing  the  text.  The  baroness  read  the  message 
slowly  and  carefully.  She  glanced  over  the  paper, 
down  at  his  head,  with  a  little  wise  smile  full  of 
contempt  for  his  limited  male  understanding. 

"  And  the  letter  ?  "  she  inquired. 

He  showed  her  a  sealed  envelope  addressed  by 
himself  to  Denise  at  Perucca.  She  took  it  up  and 
turned  it  over  slowly.  It  was  stamped  and  ready 
for  the  post.  She  then  threw  it  down  with  a  short 
laugh. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  explained,  "  of  the  differ- 
ence between  men  and  women.  A  woman  "would 
have  filled  a  cup  with  boiling  water  and  laid  that 
letter  upon  it.  It  is  quite  easy.  Why,  we  were 
taught  it  at  the  convent  school !  You  could  have 
opened  the  letter  and  read  it,  and  then  closed  it 
again  and  returned  it.  By  that  simple  subterfuge 
you  would  have  known  the  contents,  and  would 
still  have  had  the  credit  for  doing  as  you  were  told. 
And  I  think  three  women  out  of  five  would  have 
done  it,  and  the  whole  five  would  have  wanted  to 
do  it.  Ah!  you  may  laugh.  You  do  not  know 
what  wretches  we  are  compared  to  men — compared 


162  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

especially  to  some  few  of  them  ;  to  a  Baron  Henri 
de  Melide  or  a  Count  de  Vasselot — who  are  honour- 
able men,  my  cousin." 

She  touched  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder  with  one 
finger,  and  then  turned  away  to  look  with  thought- 
ful eyes  out  of  the  window. 

"  I  wonder  what  is  in  that  letter,"  said  Lory,  re- 
turning to  his  pen. 

The  baroness  turned  on  her  heel  and  looked  at 
him  with  her  contemptuous  smile  again. 

"Oh,"  she  said  carelessly,  "she  was  probably  in 
a  difficulty,  which  solved  itself  after  the  letter  was 
posted.  Or  she  was  afraid  of  something,  and  found 
that  her  fears  were  unnecessary.  That  is  all,  no 
doubt." 

There  is,  it  appears,  an  esj>rit  de  sexe  which  pre- 
vents women  from  giving  each  other  away. 

"  So  you  merel}^  placed  the  letter  in  an  envelope 
and  are  returning  it,  thus,  without  comment  ?  "  in- 
quired the  baroness. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Lory,  who  was  writing  a  letter 
now. 

And  his  cousin  stood  looking  at  him  with  an 
amused  and  yet  tender  smile  in  her  gay  eyes.  She 
remained  silent  until  he  had  finished. 

"  There,"  he  said,  taking  an  envelope  and  address- 
ing it  hurriedly,  "  that  is  done.  It  is  to  the  Abbe 
Susini  at  Olmeta ;  and  it  contains  some  of  those 
things,  my  cousin,  that  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Do  you  think  I  care,"  said  the  baroness,  "  for 
your  stupid  politics?    Do  you  think  any  woman 


WAK  163 

cares  for  politics  who  has  found  some  stupid  man 
to  care  for  her  ?  Tliere  is  7ny  stupid  in  the  street — 
on  his  new  horse." 

In  a  moment  Lory  was  at  the  window. 

"  A  new  horse,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  I  did  not 
know  that.     "Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

"  We  were  talking  of  empires,"  replied  the  bar- 
oness. "  By  the  way,"  she  added,  in  after-thought, 
"  is  our  good  friend  Colonel  Gilbert  in  Corsica  ?  " 

"  Yes — he  is  at  Bastia." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  baroness,  looking  reflectively  at 
Denise's  telegram,  which  she  still  held  in  her  hand, 
"  I  thought  he  was." 

Then  that  placid  man,  the  Baron  Henri  de  Melide, 
came  into  the  room,  and  shook  hands  in  the  then 
novel  English  fashion,  looking  at  his  lifelong  friend 
with  a  dull  and  apathetic  eye. 

"  From  the  frontier  ?  "  he  inquired. 

Lory  laughed  curtly.  He  had  returned  from  that 
Last  Frontier,  where  each  one  of  us  shall  inevitably 
be  asked  "  Si  monsieur  a  quelque  chose  a  declarer  ?  " 

"  I  shall  give  you  ten  minutes  for  your  secrets, 
and  then  luncheon  will  be  ready,"  said  the  baroness, 
quitting  the  room. 

And  Lory  told  his  friend  those  things  which  were 
not  for  a  woman's  hearing. 

At  luncheon  both  men  were  suspiciously  cheer- 
ful ;  and,  doubtless,  their  companion  read  them  like 
open  books.  Immediately  after  coffee  Lory  took 
his  leave. 

"I  leave  Paris  to-night,"  he  said,  with  his  old 


164  THE  ISLE  OF  UXREST 

cheerfulness.    "  This  war  is  not  over  yet.    We  have 
not  the  shadow  of  a  chance  of  winning,  but  we  shall 
perhaps  be  able  to  show  the  world  that  France  can 
stiU  fight." 
Which  prophecy  assuredly  came  true. 


CHAPTER  XYI 

A   MASTERFUL   MAN 

"  Tous  les  raisonnements  des  hommes  ne  valent  pas  un  sentiment 
d'une  femme." 

It  would  seem  that  Lory  de  Vasselot  had  played 
the  part  of  a  stormy  petrel  when  he  visited  Paris, 
for  that  calm  Frenchman,  the  Baron  de  Melide, 
packed  his  wife  off  to  Provence  the  same  night,  and 
the  letter  that  Lory  wrote  to  the  Abbe  Susini, 
reaching  Olmeta  three  days  later,  aroused  its  re- 
cipient from  a  contemplative  perusal  of  the  Petit 
Bastiais  as  if  it  had  been  a  bomb-shell. 

The  abbe  threw  aside  his  newspaper  and  cigarette. 
He  was  essentially  a  man  of  action.  He  had  been 
on  his  feet  all  day,  hurrying  hither  and  thither  over 
his  widespread  parish,  interfering  in  this  man's 
business  and  that  woman's  quarrels  with  that  hasti- 
ness which  usually  characterises  the  doings  of  such 
as  pride  themselves  upon  their  capability  for  action 
and  contempt  for  mere  passive  thought.  It  was 
now  evening,  and  a  blessed  cool  air  was  stealing 
down  from  the  mountains.  Successive  days  of  un- 
broken sunshine  had  burnt  all  the  western  side  of 
the  island,  had  almost  dried  up  the  Aliso,  which 
crept,  a  mere  rivulet  in  its  stormy  bed,  toward  St. 
Florent  and  the  sea. 

165 


166  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

Susini  went  to  the  window  of  his  little  room  and 
opened  the  wooden  shutters.  His  house  is  next  to 
the  church  at  Olmeta  and  faces  northwest ;  so  that 
in  the  summer  the  evening  sun  glares  across  the 
valley  into  its  windows.  He  was  no  great  scholar, 
and  had  but  a  poor  record  in  the  archives  of  the 
college  at  Corte.  Lory  de  Yasselot  had  written  in 
a  hurry,  and  the  letter  was  a  long  one.  Susini  read 
it  once,  and  was  turning  it  to  read  again,  when, 
glancing  out  of  the  window,  he  saw  Denise  cross 
the  Place,  and  go  into  the  church. 

"  Ah ! "  he  said  aloud,  "  that  will  save  me  a  long 
walk."  " 

Then  he  read  the  letter  again,  with  curt  nods  of 
the  head  from  time  to  time,  as  if  Lory  were  making 
points  or  giving  minute  instructions.  He  folded 
the  letter,  placed  it  in  the  pocket  of  his  cassock,  and 
gave  himself  a  smart  tap  on  the  chest,  as  if  to  in- 
dicate that  this  was  the  moment  and  himself  the 
man.  He  was  brisk  and  full  of  self-confidence, 
managing,  interfering,  commanding,  as  all  true 
Corsicans  are.  He  took  his  hat,  hardly  paused  to 
blow  the  dust  off  it,  and  hurried  out  into  the  sunlit 
Place.  He  went  rather  slowly  up  the  church  steps, 
however,  for  he  was  afraid  of  Denise.  Her  youth, 
and  something  spring-like  and  mystic  in  her  being, 
disturbed  him,  made  him  uneasy  and  shy  ;  which 
was  perhaps  his  reason  for  drawing  aside  the  heavy 
leather  curtain  and  going  into  the  church,  instead 
of  waiting  for  her  outside.  He  preferred  to  meet 
her  on  his  own  ground — in  the  chill  air,  heavy  with 


A  MASTERFUL  MAN  167 

the  odour  of  stale  incense,  and  in  the  dim  light  of 
that  place  where  he  laid  down,  in  blunt  language, 
his  own  dim  reading  of  God's  law. 

He  stood  just  within  the  curtain,  looking  at 
Denise,  who  was  praying  on  one  of  the  low  chairs  a 
few  yards  away  from  him ;  and  he  was  betrayed 
into  a  characteristic  impatience  when  she  remained 
longer  on  her  knees  than  he  (as  a  man)  deemed 
necessary  at  that  moment.  He  showed  his  impa- 
tience by  shuffling  with  his  feet,  and  still  Denise 
took  no  notice. 

The  abbe,  by  chance  or  instinct,  slipped  his  hand 
within  his  cassock,  and  drew  out  the  letter  which  he 
had  just  received.  The  rustle  of  the  thin  paper 
brought  Denise  to  her  feet  in  a  moment,  facing 
him. 

"  The  French  mail  has  arrived,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Denise,  quickly,  looking  down  at 
his  hands. 

They  were  alone  in  the  church  which,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  was  never  very  well  attended  ;  and  the 
abbe,  who  had  not  that  respect  for  God  or  man 
which  finds  expression  in  a  lowered  voice,  spoke  in 
his  natural  tones. 

"  And  I  have  news  which  aftects  you,  mademoi- 
selle." 

"I  suppose  that  any  news  of  France  must  do 
that,"  replied  Denise,  with  some  spirit. 

"  Of  course — of  course,"  said  the  abbe,  rubbing 
his  chin  with  his  forefinger,  and  making  a  rasping 
sound  on  that  shaven  surface. 


168  THE  ISLE  OF  UKREST 

He  reflected  in  silence  for  a  moment,  and  Denise 
made,  in  her  turn,  a  liasty  movement  of  impatience. 
She  had  only  met  the  abbe  once  or  twice;  and  all 
that  she  knew  of  him  was  the  fact  that  he  had  an 
imperious  way  with  him  which  aroused  a  spirit  of 
opposition  in  herself. 

"  Well,  Monsieur  I'Abbe,"  she  said,  "  Avhat  is 
it?" 

"It  is  that  Mademoiselle  Brun  and  yourself  will 
have  but  two  hours  to  prepare  for  your  departure 
from  the  Casa  Perucca,"  he  answered.  And  he 
drew  out  a  large  silver  watch,  which  he  consulted 
with  the  quiet  air  of  a  commander. 

Denise  glanced  at  him  with  some  surprise,  and 
then  smiled. 

"  By  whose  orders,  Monsieur  I'Abbe  ?  "  she  in- 
quired with  a  dangerous  gentleness. 

Then  the  priest  realised  that  she  meant  fight,  and 
all  his  combativeness  leapt,  as  it  were,  to  meet 
hers.  His  eyes  flashed  in  the  gloom  of  the  twilit 
church. 

"  I,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  wath  that  humility 
which  is  naught  but  an  aggravated  form  of  pride. 
He  tapped  himself  on  the  chest  with  such  emphasis 
that  a  cloud  of  dust  flew  out  of  his  cassock,  and  he 
blew  defiance  at  her  through  it.  "  I — who  speak, 
take  the  liberty  of  making  this  suggestion.  I,  the 
Abbe  Susini — and  your  humble  servant." 

Which  was  not  true ;  for  he  was  no  man's  serv- 
ant, and  only  offered  to  heaven  a  half-defiant  al- 
legiance.    Denise  wanted  to  know  the  contents  of 


A  MASTERFUL  MAN      .  1G9 

the  letter  he  held  crushed  within  his  fingers;  so 
she  restrained  an  impulse  to  answer  him  hastily, 
and  merely  laughed.  The  priest  thought  that  he 
had  gained  his  point. 

"  I  can  give  you  two  hours,"  he  said,  "  in  which 
to  make  your  preparations.  At  seven  o'clock  I 
shall  arrive  at  the  Casa  Perucca  with  a  carriage,  in 
which  to  conduct  Mademoiselle  Brun  and  your- 
self to  St.  Florent,  where  a  yacht  is  awaiting 
you." 

Denise  bit  her  lip  impatiently,  and  watched  the 
thin  brown  fingers  that  were  clenched  round  the 
letter. 

"  Then  what  is  your  news  from  France  ?  "  she 
asked.  "  From  whence  is  your  letter — from  the 
front  ?  " 

"  It  is  from  Paris,"  answered  the  abbe,  unfolding 
the  paper  carelessly ;  and  Denise  would  not  have 
been  human  had  she  resisted  the  temptation  to  try 
and  decipher  it. 

"And ?" 

"  And,"  continued  the  abbe,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, "  I  have  nothing  to  add,  mademoiselle.  You 
must  quit  Perucca  before  the  morning.  The  news 
is  bad,  I  tell  you  frankly.  The  empire  is  totter- 
ing to  its  fall,  and  the  news  that  I  have  in  secret 
will  be  known  all  over  Corsica  to-morrow.  Who 
knows  ?  the  island  may  flare  up  like  a  heap  of 
bracken,  and  no  one  bearing  a  French  name,  or 
known  to  have  French  sympathies,  v;ill  be  safe. 
You  know  how  you  yourself  are  regarded  in  01- 


170  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 


meta.  It  is  foolhardy  to  venture  here  this  even- 
ing." 

Denise  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  had  plenty 
of  spirit,  and,  at  all  events,  that  courage  which 
refuses  to  admit  the  existence  of  danger.  Per- 
haps she  was  not  thinking  of  danger,  or  of  herself, 
at  all. 

"  Then  the  Count  Lory  de  Vasselot  has  ordered 
us  out  of  Corsica  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Mademoiselle,  we  are  wasting  time,"  answered 
the  priest,  folding  the  letter  and  replacing  it  in 
his  pocket.  "  A  yacht  is  awaiting  you  off  St.  Flor- 
ent.     All  is  organised " 

"  By  the  Count  Lory  de  Vasselot  ?  " 

The  abbe  stamped  his  foot  impatiently. 

"  Bon  Dieu,  mademoiselle  !  "  he  cried,  "  you  will 
make  me  lose  my  temper.  The  yacht,  I  tell  j'-ou, 
is  at  the  entrance  of  the  bay,  and  by  to-morrow 
morning  it  will  be  half-way  to  France.  You  can- 
not stay  here.  You  must  make  your  choice  be- 
tween returning  to  France  and  going  into  the  Wat- 
rin  barracks  at  Bastia.  Colonel  Gilbert  will,  I 
fancy,  know  how  to  make  you  obey  him.  And  all 
Corsica  is  in  the  hands  of  Colonel  Gilbert — though 
no  one  but  Colonel  Gilbert  knows  that." 

He  spoke  rapidly,  thrusting  forward  his  dark, 
eager  face,  forgetting  all  his  shyness,  glaring  de- 
fiance into  her  quiet  eyes. 

"  There,  mademoiselle — and  now  your  answer  ?  " 

"Would  it  not  be  well  if  the  Count  Lory  de 
Yasselot  attended  to  his   own  affairs  at  the  Cha- 


A  MASTEKFUL  MAK  lYl 

teau  de  Vasselot,  and  the  interests  he  has  there  ?  " 
replied  Denise,  turning  away  from  his  persistent 
eyes. 

And  the  abbe's  face  dropped  as  if  she  had  shot 
him. 

"  Good  ! "  he  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"  I  wash  my  hands  of  you.     You  refuse  to  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Denise,  going  toward  the 
door  with  a  high  head,  and,  it  is  possible,  an  ach- 
ing heart.     For  the  two  often  go  together. 

And  the  abbe,  a  man  little  given  to  the  conceal- 
ment of  his  feelings,  shook  his  fist  at  the  leather 
curtain  as  it  fell  into  place  behind  her. 

"  Ah — these  women  !  "  he  said  aloud.  "  A  se- 
cret that  is  thirty  years  old  !  " 

Denise  hurried  down  the  steps  and  away  from 
the  village.  She  knew  that  the  postman,  having 
passed  through  Olmeta,  must  now  be  on  the  high- 
road on  his  way  to  Perucca,  and  she  felt  sure  that 
he  must  have  in  his  bag  the  letter  of  which  she  had 
followed,  in  imagination,  the  progress  during  the 
last  three  days. 

"  Now  it  is  in  the  train  from  Paris  to  Mar- 
seilles ;  now  it  is  on  board  the  Perseverance^ 
steaming  across  the  Gulf  of  Lyons,"  had  been  her 
thought  night  and  morning.  "  Kow  it  is  at  Bas- 
tia,"  she  had  imagined  on  waking  at  dawn  that 
day.  And  at  length  she  had  it  now,  in  thought, 
close  to  her  on  the  Olmeta  road  in  front  of  her. 

At  a  turn  of  the  road  she  caught  sight  of  the 
postman,  trudging  along  beneath  the  heavy  chest- 


172  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

nut  trees.  Then  at  length  she  overtook  hhn,  and 
he  stopped  to  open  the  bag  slung  across  his  shoul- 
der. He  was  a  silent  man,  who  saluted  her  awk- 
wardly, and  handed  her  several  letters  and  a  news- 
paper. With  another  salutation  he  walked  on, 
leaving  Denise  standing  by  the  low  wall  of  the 
road  alone.  There  was  only  one  letter  for  her. 
She  turned  it  over  and  examined  the  seal ;  a  bare 
sword  with  a  gay  French  motto  beneath  it — the 
device  of  the  Vasselots. 

She  opened  the  envelope  after  a  long  pause.  It 
contained  nothing  but  her  own  travel-stained  let- 
ter, of  which  the  seal  had  not  been  broken.  And, 
as  she  thoughtfully  examined  both  envelopes, 
there  glistened  in  her  eyes  that  light  which  it  is 
vouchsafed  to  a  few  men  to  see,  and  which  is  the 
nearest  approach  to  the  light  of  heaven  that  ever 
illumines  this  poor  earth.  For  love  has,  among 
otherg,  this  peculiarity :  that  it  may  live  in  the 
same  heart  with  a  great  anger,  and  seems  to  gain 
only  strength  from  the  proximity. 

Denise  replaced  the  two  letters  in  her  pocket  and 
walked  on.  A  carriage  passed  her,  and  she  received 
a  curt  bow  and  salutation  from  the  Abbe  Susini  who 
was  in  it.  The  carriage  turned  to  the  right  at  the 
cross-roads,  and  rattled  down  the  hill  in  the  direction 
of  Yasselot.  Denise's  head  went  an  inch  higher  at 
the  sight  of  it. 

"  I  met  the  Abbe  Susini  at  Olmeta,"  she  said  to 
Mademoiselle  Brun,  a  few  minutes  later  in  the  great 
bare  drawing-room  of  the  Casa  Perucca.     "  And  he 


A  MASTERFUL  MAN  173 

transmitted  the  Count  de  Yasselot's  command  that 
we  should  leave  the  Casa  Perucca  to-night  for  France. 
I  suggested  that  the  order  should  be  given  to  the 
Chateau  de  Vasselot  instead  of  the  Casa  Perucca, 
and  the  abbe  took  me  at  my  word.  He  has  gone  to 
the  Chateau  de  Vasselot  now  in  a  carriage." 

Mademoiselle  Brun,  who  was  busy  with  her  work 
near  the  window,  laid  aside  her  needle  and  looked 
at  Denise.  She  had  a  faculty  of  instantly  going,  as 
it  were,  to  the  essential  part  of  a  question  and  tear- 
ing the  heart  out  of  it :  which  faculty  is,  with  all 
respect,  more  a  masculine  than  a  feminine  quality. 
She  ignored  the  side-issues  and  pounced,  as  it  were, 
upon  the  central  thread — the  reason  that  Lory  de 
Yasselot  had  had  for  sending  such  an  order.  She 
rose  and  tore  open  the  newspaper,  glanced  at  the 
war-news,  and  laid  it  aside.  Then  she  opened  a 
letter  addressed  to  herself.  It  was  on  superlatively 
thick  paper  and  bore  a  coronet  in  one  corner. 

"  My  Dear  "  (it  ran), 

"  This  much  I  have  learnt  from  two  men 
who  will  tell  me  nothing — France  is  lost.  The 
Holy  Virgin  help  us  ! 

"  Your  devoted 

"  Jane  de  Melide." 

Mademoiselle  Brun  turned  away  to  the  window, 
and  stood  there  with  her  back  to  Denise  for  some 
moments.  At  length  she  came  back,  and  the  girl 
saw  something  in  the  grey  and  wizened  face  which 
stirred  her  heart,  she  knew"  not  why  ;  for  all  great 


174  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

thoughts  and  high  qualities  have  power  to  illumine 
the  humblest  countenance. 

"  You  may  stay  here  if  you  like,"  said  Made- 
moiselle Brun,  "  but  I  am  going  back  to  France  to- 
night." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

For  reply  Mademoiselle  Brun  handed  her  the 
Baroness  de  Melide's  letter. 

"  Yes,"  said  Denise,  when  she  had  read  the  note. 
"  But  I  do  not  understand." 

"  No.  Because  you  never  knew  your  father — the 
bravest  man  God  ever  created.  But  some  other 
man  will  teach  you  some  day." 

"  Teach  me  what  ?  "  asked  Denise,  looking  with 
wonder  at  the  little  woman.  "  Of  what  are  you 
thinking  ?  " 

"  Of  that  of  which  Lory  de  Yasselot,  and  Henri 
de  Melide,  and  Jane,  and  all  good  Frenchmen 
and  Frenchwomen  are  thinking  at  this  moment — 
of  France,  and  only  France,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Brun ;  and  out  of  her  mouse-like  eyes  there  shone, 
at  that  moment,  the  soul  of  a  man — and  of  a  brave 
man. 

Her  lips  quivered  for  a  moment,  before  she  shut 
them  with  a  snap.  Perhaps  Denise  wanted  to  be 
persuaded  to  return  to  France.  Perhaps  the  blood 
that  ran  in  her  veins  was  stirred  by  the  spirit  of 
Mademoiselle  Brun,  whose  arguments  were  short 
and  sharp,  as  became  a  woman  much  given  to 
economy  in  words.  At  all  events,  the  girl  listened 
in  silence  while  mademoiselle  explained  that  even 


A  MASTEKFUL  MAN  175 

two  women  might,  in  some  minute  degree,  help 
France  at  this  moment.  For  patriotism,  like  cour- 
age, is  infectious  ;  and  it  is  a  poor  heart  that  hurries 
to  abandon  a  sinking  ship. 

It  thus  came  about  that,  soon  after  sunset, 
Mademoiselle  Brun  and  Denise  hurried  down  to 
the  cross-roads  to  intercept  the  carriage,  of  which 
they  could  perceive  the  lights  slowly  approaching 
across  the  dark  valley  of  Yasselot. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WITHOUT  DEUM   OE  TEUMPET 

"  We  do  squint  each  through  his  loophole, 
And  then  dream  broad  heaven 
Is  but  the  patch  we  see." 

It  was  almost  dark  when  the  abbe's  carriage 
reached  the  valley,  and  the  driver  paused  to  light 
the  two  stable-lanterns  tied  with  string  to  the 
dilapidated  lamp-brackets.  The  abbe  was  im- 
patient, and  fidgeted  in  his  seat.  He  was  at 
heart  an  autocrat,  and  hated  to  be  defied  even  by- 
one  over  whom  he  could  not  pretend  to  have  con- 
trol. He  snapped  his  finger  and  thumb  as  he 
thought  of  Denise. 

"  She  puzzles  me,"  he  muttered.  "  AVhat  does  she 
want  ?     Bon  Dieu,  what  does  she  want  ?  " 

Then  he  spoke  angrily  to  the  driver,  whose  move- 
ments were  slow  and  clumsy. 

"  At  all  events  my  task  is  easier  here,"  he  con- 
soled himself  by  saying  as  the  carriage  approached 
the  chateau,  "  now  that  I  am  rid  of  these  women." 

At  last  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  slope  leading 
up  to  the  half-ruined  house,  which  loomed  against 
the  evening  sky  immediately  above  them  ;  and  the 
driver  pulled  up  his  restive  horses  with  an  air  sig- 
nificant of  arrival. 

176 


WITHOUT  DEUM  OK  TRUMPET      177 

"  Right  up  to  the  chS,teau,"  cried  the  abb6  from 
beneath  the  hood. 

But  the  man  made  no  movement,  and  sat  on  the 
box  muttering  to  himself. 

"  What ! "  cried  the  abbe,  who  had  caught  some 
words.  "  Jean  has  the  evil  eye  !  What  of  Jean's 
evil  eye  ?  Here,  I  will  give  you  my  rosary  to  put 
round  your  coward's  neck.  No  !  Then  down  you 
get,  my  friend.  You  can  Avait  here  till  we  come 
back." 

As  he  spoke  he  leapt  out,  and,  climbing  into  the 
box,  pushed  the  driver  unceremoniously  from  his 
seat,  snatching  the  reins  and  whip  from  his  hands. 

"  He  !  "  he  cried.     "  AUons,  mv  little  ones  !  " 

And  with  whip  and  voice  he  urged  the  horses  up 
the  slope  at  a  canter  while  the  carriage  swayed 
across  from  one  great  tree  to  another.  They 
reached  the  summit  in  safety,  and  the  priest  pulled 
the  horses  up  at  the  great  door — the  first  carriage 
to  disturb  the  quiet  of  that  spot  for  nearly  a  genera- 
tion. He  twisted  the  reins  round  the  whip-socket, 
and  clambering  down  rang  the  great  bell.  It  an- 
swered to  his  imperious  summons  by  the  hollo av 
clang  that  betrays  an  empty  house.  No  one  came. 
He  stood  without,  drumming  Avith  his  fist  on  the 
doorpost.  Then  he  turned  to  listen.  Some  one 
was  approaching  from  the  darkness  of  the  trees. 
But  it  was  only  the  driver  folio Aving  sullenly  on  foot. 

"  Here  ! "  said  the  priest,  recognising  him.  "  Go 
to  your  horses !  " 

As  he  spoke  he  Avas  already  untying  one  of  the 


178  THE  ISLE  OF  UKKEST 

stable-lanterns  that  swung  at  the  lamp-bracket. 
His  eyes  gleamed  beneath  the  brnn  of  his  broad 
hat.     He  was  quick  and  anxious. 

"  "Wait  here  till  I  come  back,"  he  said ;  and, 
keeping  close  to  the  wall,  he  disappeared  among  the 
low  bushes. 

There  was  another  way  in,  by  a  door  half  hidden 
among  the  ivy,  which  Jean  used  for  his  mysterious 
comings  and  goings,  and  of  which  the  abbe  had  a 
key.  He  had  brought  it  with  him  to-night  by  a 
lucky  chance.  He  had  to  push  aside  the  ivy  which 
hung  from  the  walls  in  great  ropes,  and  only  found 
the  keyhole  after  a  hurried  search.  But  the  lock 
was  in  good  order.  Jean,  it  appeared,  was  a  care- 
ful man. 

Susini  hurried  through  a  long  passage  to  the  little 
round  room  where  the  Count  de  Yasselot  had  lived 
so  long.  He  stopped  with  his  nose  in  the  air,  and 
sniffed  aloud.  The  atmosphere  was  heavy  with  the 
smell  of  stale  tobacco,  and  yet  there  could  be  de- 
tected the  sweeter  odour  of  smoke  scarcely  cold. 
The  room  must  have  been  inhabited  only  a  few 
hours  ago.  The  abbe  opened  the  window,  and  the 
smell  of  carnations  swept  in  like  the  breath  of 
another  world.  He  returned  to  the  room,  and, 
opening  his  lantern,  lighted  a  candle  that  stood  on 
the  mantelpiece.  He  looked  round.  Sundry  small 
articles  in  daily  use — the  count's  pipe,  his  old  brass 
tobacco-box :  a  few  such  things  that  a  man  lives 
with,  and  puts  in  his  pocket  when  he  goes  away — 
were  missing. 


WITHOUT  DRUM  OR  TRUMPET      179 

"  Buon  Diou  !  Buon  Diou !  Buon  Diou — gone ! " 
muttered  the  priest,  lapsing  into  his  native  dialect. 
He  looked  around  him  with  keen  eyes — at  the 
blackened  walls,  at  the  carpet  worn  into  holes. 
"  That  Jean  must  have  known  something  that  I  do 
not  know.  All  the  same,  I  shall  look  through  the 
house." 

He  blew  out  the  candle,  and  taking  the  lantern 
quitted  the  room.  He  searched  the  whole  house — 
passing  from  empty  room  to  empty  room.  The  re- 
ception-rooms were  huge  and  sparingly  furnished 
with  those  thin-legged  chairs  and  ancient  card-tables 
which  recall  the  days  of  Letitia  Eamolino  and  that 
easy-going  Charles  Buonaparte,  who  brought  into 
the  world  the  greatest  captain  that  armies  have  ever 
seen.  The  bedrooms  were  small :  all  alike  smelt  of 
mouldering  age.  In  one  room  the  abbe  stopped 
and  raised  his  inquiring  nose ;  the  room  had  been 
inhabited  by  a  woman — years  and  years  ago. 

He  searched  the  house  from  top  to  bottom,  and 
there  was  no  one  in  it.  The  abbe  had  failed  in  the 
two  missions  confided  to  him  by  Lory,  and  he  was 
one  to  whom  failure  was  peculiarly  bitter.  With 
respect  to  the  two  women,  he  had  perhaps  scarcely 
expected  to  succeed,  for  he  had  lived  fifty  years  in 
the  world,  and  his  calling  had  brought  him  into 
daily  contact  with  that  salutary  chastening  of  the 
spirit  which  must  assuredly  be  the  lot  of  a  man 
who  seeks  to  enforce  his  will  upon  women.  But 
his  failure  to  find  the  old  Count  de  Yasselot  was  a 
more  serious  matter. 


180  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

He  returned  slowly  to  the  carriage,  and  told  the 
driver  to  return  to  Olmeta. 

"  I  have  changed  my  plans,"  he  said,  still  mind- 
ful of  the  secret  he  had  received  with  other  pastoral 
charges  from  his  predecessor.  "  Jean  is  not  in  the 
chateau,  so  I  shall  not  go  to  St.  Florent  to-night." 

He  leant  forward,  and  looked  up  at  the  old  castle 
outlined  against  the  sky.  A  breeze  was  springing 
up  with  the  suddenness  of  all  atmospheric  changes 
in  these  latitudes,  and  the  old  trees  creaked  and 
groaned,  while  the  leaves  had  already  that  rustling 
brittleness  of  sound  that  betokens  the  approach  of 
autumn. 

As  they  crossed  the  broad  valley  the  wind  in- 
creased, sweeping  up  the  course  of  the  Aliso  in  wild 
gusts.  It  was  blowing  a  gale  before  the  horses 
fell  to  a  quick  walk  up  the  hill ;  and  Mademoiselle 
Brun's  small  figure,  planted  in  the  middle  of  the 
road,  was  the  first  indication  that  the  driver  had  of 
the  presence  of  the  two  women,  though  the  widow 
Andrei,  who  accompanied  them  and  carried  their 
travelling-bags,  had  already  called  out  more  than 
once. 

"  The  Abbe  Susini  ?  "  cried  Mademoiselle  Brun, 
in  curt  interrogation. 

In  reply,  the  driver  pointed  to  the  inside  of  the 
carriage  with  the  handle  of  his  whip. 

"  You  are  alone  ?  "  said  mademoiselle,  in  surprise. 

The  light  of  the  lantern  shone  brightly  on  her, 
and  on  the  dimmer  form  of  Denise,  silent  and  an- 
gry in  the  background ;  for  Denise  had  allowed  her 


WITPIOUT  DRUM  OR  TRUMPET      isi 

inclination  to  triumph  over  her  pride,  which  con- 
quest usually  leaves  a  sore  heart  behind  it. 

"  But,  yes  !  "  answered  the  abbe,  alighting  quickly 
enough. 

He  guessed  instantly  that  Denise  had  changed 
her  mind,  and  was  indiscreet  enough  to  put  his 
thoughts  into  words. 

"  So  mademoiselle  has  thought  better  of  it  ?  "  he 
said  ;  and  got  no  answer  for  his  pains. 

Both  Mademoiselle  Brun  and  Denise  were  look- 
ing curiously  at  the  interior  of  the  carriage  from 
which  the  priest  emerged,  leaving  it,  as  they  noted, 
empty. 

"  There  is  yet  time  to  go  to  St.  Florent  ? "  in- 
quired the  elder  woman. 

The  priest  grabbed  at  his  hat  as  a  squall  swept 
up  the  road,  whirling  the  dust  high  above  their 
heads. 

"  Whether  we  shall  get  on  board  is  another  mat- 
ter," he  muttered  by  way  of  answer.  "  Come,  get 
into  the  carriage ;  we  have  no  time  to  lose.  It  will 
be  a  bad  night  at  sea." 

"  Then,  for  my  sins  I  shall  be  sea-sick,"  said  Ma- 
demoiselle Brun,  imperturbablj'". 

She  took  her  bag  from  the  hand  of  the  widoAV 
Andrei,  and  would  have  it  nowhere  but  on  her  lap, 
where  she  held  it  during  the  rapid  drive,  sitting 
bolt  upright,  staring  straight  in  front  of  her  into 
the  face  of  the  abbe. 

No  one  spoke,  for  each  had  thoughts  sufficient  to 
occupy  the  moment.     Susini  perhaps  had  the  nar- 


182  THE  ISLE  OF  UJN^REST 

rowest  vein  of  reflection  upon  which  to  draw,  and 
therefore  fidgeted  in  his  seat  and  muttered  to  him- 
self, for  his  mental  range  was  limited  to  Olmeta 
and  the  Chateau  de  Vasselot.  Mademoiselle  Brun 
was  thinking  of  France — of  her  great  past  and  her 
dim,  uncertain  future.  While  Denise  sat  stiller  and 
more  silent  than  either,  for  her  thoughts  were  at 
once  as  wide  as  the  whole  world,  and  as  narrow  as 
the  human  heart. 

At  a  turn  in  the  road  she  looked  up,  and  saw  the 
sharp  outline  of  the  Casa  Perucca,  black  and  sombre 
against  a  sky  now  lighted  by  a  rising  moon,  flecked 
and  broken  by  heavy  clouds,  with  deep  lurking 
shadows  and  mountains  of  snowy  whiteness.  In 
the  Casa  Perucca  she  had  learnt  what  life  means, 
and  no  man  or  woman  ever  forgets  the  place  where 
that  lesson  has  been  acquired. 

"  I  shall  come  back,"  she  whispered,  looking  up 
at  the  great  rock  with  its  giant  pines  and  the  two 
square  chimneys  half  hidden  in  the  foliage. 

And  the  Abbe  Susini,  seeing  a  movement  of  her 
lips,  glanced  curiously  at  her.  He  was  still  won- 
dering what  she  Avanted.  "  Mon  Dieu,"  he  was  re- 
flecting a  second  time,  "  what  does  she  want  ?  " 

He  stopped  the  carriage  outside  the  town  of  St. 
Florent  at  the  end  of  the  long  causeway  built  across 
the  marsh,  where  the  wind  swept  now  from  the 
open  bay  with  a  salt  flavour  to  it.  He  alighted, 
and  took  Denise's  bag,  rightly  concluding  that 
Mademoiselle  Brun  would  prefer  to  carry  her 
own. 


WITHOUT  DPvUM  OR  TRUMPET      183 

"  Follow  me,"  he  said,  taking  a  delight  in  being 
as  curt  as  Mademoiselle  Brun  herself,  and  in  deny- 
ing them  the  explanations  they  were  too  proud  to 
demand. 

They  walked  abreast  through  the  narrow  street 
dimly  lighted  by  a  single  lamp  swinging  on  a  gib- 
bet at  the  corner,  turned  sharp  to  the  left,  and 
found  themselves  suddenly  at  the  water's  edge.  A 
few  boats  bumped  lazily  at  some  steps  where  the 
Avater  lapped.  It  was  blowing  hard  out  in  the  bay, 
but  this  corner  was  protected  by  a  half -ruined  house 
built  on  a  projecting  rock. 

The  priest  looked  round. 

"  He  !  la-bas !  "  he  caUed  out,  in  a  guarded  voice. 

But  he  received  no  answer. 

"  Wait  here,"  he  said  to  the  two  women.  "  I  will 
fetch  him  from  the  cafe."     And  he  disappeared. 

Denise  and  mademoiselle  stood  in  silence  listen- 
ing to  the  lapping  of  the  water  and  the  slow, 
muffled  bumping  of  the  boats  until  the  abbe  re- 
turned, followed  by  a  man  who  slouched  along  on 
bare  feet. 

"  Yes,"  he  was  saying,  "  the  yacht  was  there  at 
sunset.  I  saw  her  myself  lying  just  outside  the 
point.  But  it  is  folly  to  try  and  reach  her  to-night ; 
wait  till  the  morning,  Monsieur  I'Abbe." 

"  And  find  her  gone,"  answered  the  priest.  "  No, 
no ;  we  embark  to-night,  my  friend.  If  these  ladies 
are  willing,  surely  a  St.  Florent  man  will  not  hold 
baok  ?  " 

"  But  you  have  not  told  these  ladies  of  the  dan- 


184  THE  ISLE  OF  UKEEST 

ger.  The  wind  is  blowing  right  into  the  bay ;  we 
cannot  tack  out  against  it.  It  will  take  me  two 
hours  to  row  out  single-handed  with  some  one  bal- 
ing out  the  whole  time." 

"  But  I  will  pull  an  oar  with  you,"  answered 
Susini.  "  Come,  show  us  which  is  your  boat.  Ma- 
demoiselle Brun  will  bale  out,  and  the  vounof  lady 
v.qll  steer.     We  shall  be  quite  a  family  party." 

There  was  no  denying  a  man  who  took  matters 
into  his  own  hands  so  energetically. 

"  You  can  pull  an  oar  ?  "  inquired  the  boatman, 
doubtfully. 

"  I  was  born  at  Bonifacio,  my  friend.  Come,  I 
will  take  the  bow  oar  if  you  will  find  me  an  oilskin 
coat.  It  will  not  be  too  dry  up  in  the  bows  to- 
night." 

And,  like  most  masterful  people — right  or  wrong 
— the  abbe  had  his  way,  even  to  the  humble  office 
assigned  to  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"  You  will  need  to  remove  your  glove  and  bare 
your  arm,"  explained  the  boatman,  handing  her  an 
old  tin  mug.  "  But  you  will  not  find  the  water 
cold.  It  is  always  warmer  at  night.  Thus  the 
good  God  remembers  poor  fishermen.  The  seas 
will  come  over  the  bows  when  we  round  this  cor- 
ner ;  they  will  rise  up  and-  hit  the  abbe  in  the  back, 
which  is  his  affair ;  then  they  will  wash  aft  into 
this  well,  and  from  that  you  must  bale  it  out  all  the 
time.  When  the  seas  come  in,  you  need  not  be 
alarmed,  nor  will  it  be  necessary  to  cry  out." 

"  Such  instructions,  my  friend,"  said  the  priest, 


WITHOUT  DRUM  OR  TRUMPET      185 

scrambling  into  his  oilskin  coat,  "  are  unnecessary 
to  mademoisellej  who  is  a  woman  of  discern- 
ment." 

"  But  I  try  not  to  be,"  snapped  Mademoiselle 
Brun.  She  knew  which  women  are  most  popular 
with  men. 

"  As  for  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  boatman  to 
Denise,  "  keep  the  boat  pointed  at  the  waves,  and 
as  each  one  comes  to  you,  cut  it  as  you  would  cut  a 
cream  cheese.  She  will  jerk  and  pull  at  you,  but 
you  must  not  be  afraid  of  her ;  and  remember  that 
the  highest  wave  may  be  cut." 

"  That  young  lady  is  not  afraid  of  much,"  mut- 
tered the  abbe,  settling  to  his  oar. 

They  pulled  slowly  out  to  the  end  of  the  rocky 
promontory,  upon  which  a  ruined  house  still  stands, 
and  shot  suddenly  out  into  a  howling  wind.  The 
first  wave  climbed  leisurely  over  the  weather-bow, 
and  slopped  aft  to  the  ladies'  feet ;  the  second  rose 
up,  and  smote  the  abbe  in  the  back. 

"  Cut  them,  mademoiselle ;  cut  them  ! "  shouted 
the  boatman. 

And  at  intervals  during  that  wild  journey  he  re- 
peated the  words,  unceremoniously  spitting  the  salt 
water  from  his  lips.  The  abbe,  bending  his  back 
to  the  work  and  the  waves,  gave  a  short  laugh 
from  time  to  time,  that  had  a  ring  in  it  to  make 
Mademoiselle  Brun  suddenly  like  the  man— the 
fighting  ring  of  exaltation  which  adapts  itself  to 
any  voice  and  any  tongue.  For  nearly  an  hour 
they  rowed  in  silence,  while  mademoiselle  baled  the 


186  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

water  out,  and  Denise  steered  with  steady  eyes 
piercing  the  darkness. 

"  We  are  quite  close  to  it,"  she  said  at  length ; 
for  she  had  long  been  steering  toward  a  light  that 
flickered  feebly  across  the  broken  water. 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  alongside,  and, 
amidst  confused  shouting  of  orders,  the  two  ladies 
were  half  lifted,  half  dragged  on  board.  The  abbe 
followed  them. 

"  A  word  with  you,"  he  said,  taking  Mademoiselle 
Brun  unceremoniously  by  the  arm,  and  leading  her 
apart.  "  You  will  be  met  by  friends  on  your  ar- 
rival at  St.  Eaphael  to-morrow.  And  when  you 
are  free  to  do  so,  will  you  do  me  a  favour  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Find  Lory  de  Yasselot,  wherever  he  may  be." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"  And  tell  him  that  I  went  to  the  Chateau  de 
Vasselot  and  found  it  empty." 

Mademoiselle  reflected  for  some  moments. 

"  Yes  ;  I  will  do  that,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  Thank  you." 

The  abbe  stared  hard  at  her  beneath  his  dripping 
hat  for  a  moment,  and  then,  turning  abruptly, 
moved  toward  the  gangway,  where  his  boat  lay  in 
comparatively  smooth  water  at  the  lee-side  of  the 
yacht.  Denise  was  speaking  to  a  man  who  seemed 
to  be  the  captain. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  followed  the  abbe. 

"  By  the  way "  she  said. 

Susini  stopped,  and  looked  into  her  face,  dimly 


"they  pulle:)  slowly  out. 


WITHOUT  DRUM  OR  TRUMPET      187 

lighted  by  the  moon,  Tvhich  peeped  at  times  through 
riven  clouds. 

"  "Whom  should  you  have  found  in  the  chateau  ?" 
she  asked. 

"  Ah  :  that  I  will  not  tell  you." 

Mademoiselle  Brun  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  Then  I  shall  find  out.  Trust  a  woman  to  find 
out  a  secret." 

The  abbe  was  already  over  the  bulwark,  so  that 
only  his  dark  face  appeared  above,  with  the  water 
running  off  it.     His  eyes  gleamed  in  the  moonlight. 

"  And  a  priest  to  keep  one,"  he  answered.  And 
he  leapt  down  into  the  boat. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A   WOMAN   OF    ACTION 

"  Love    .    .    .    gives  to  every  power  a  double  power 
Above  their  functions  and  their  offices." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Mademoiselle  Brun,  as  she  stepped 
on  deck  the  next  morning.  And  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  gloomy  departure  from  Corsica  and  the 
sunny  return  to  France  was  strong  enough,  Avith- 
out  further  comment  from  this  woman  of  few 
words. 

The  yacht  was  approaching  the  little  harbour  of 
St.  Raphael  at  half  speed  on  a  sea  as  blue  and  still 
as  the  Mediterranean  of  any  poet's  dream.  The 
freshness  of  morning  was  in  the  air — the  fresh- 
ness of  Provence,  where  the  days  are  hot  and  the 
nights  cool,  and  there  are  no  mists  between  the  one 
and  the  other.  Almost  straight  ahead,  the  little 
town  of  Frejus  (where  another  Corsican  landed  to 
set  men  by  the  ears)  stood  up  in  sharp  outline 
against  the  dark  pinewoods  of  Valescure,  with  the 
thin  wood-smoke  curling  up  from  a  hundred  chim- 
neys. To  the  left,  the  flat  lands  of  Les  Arcs  half 
hid  the  distant  heights  of  Toulon ;  and,  to  the 
right,  headland  after  headland  led  the  eye  almost 
to  the  frontier  of  Italy  along  the  finest  coast-line  in 
the  world.     Every  shade  of  blue  was  on  sky  or  sea 

188 


A  WOMAX  OF  ACTIOK  189 

or  mountain,  while  the  deep  morning  shadows  were 
transparent  and  almost  luminous.  From  the  pine- 
woods  a  scent  of  resin  swept  seaward,  mingled  with 
the  subtle  odour  of  the  tropic  foliage  near  the  shore. 
The  sky  was  cloudless.  This  was  indeed  the  smil- 
ing land  of  France. 

Denise,  who  had  followed  mademoiselle  on  deck, 
stood  still  and  drank  it  all  in ;  for  such  sights  and 
scents  have  a  deep  eloquence  for  the  young,  which 
older  hearts  can  only  touch  from  the  outside, 
vaguely  and  intangibly,  like  the  memory  of  a  per- 
fume. 

Denise  had  slept  well,  and  Mademoiselle  Brun 
said  she  had  slept  enough  for  an  old  woman,  A 
cheery  little  stewardess  had  brought  them  coffee 
soon  after  daylight,  and  had  answered  a  few  curt 
questions  put  to  her  by  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"  Yes  ;  the  yacht  was  the  yacht  of  the  Baron  de 
Melide,  and  the  hete-noh'e,  by  the  same  token,  of 
madame,  who  hated  the  sea." 

And  madame  was  at  the  chateau  near  Frejus, 
where  Monsieur  le  Baron  had  installed  her  on  the 
outbreak  of  the  war,  and  would  assuredly  be  on  the 
pier  at  St.  Eaphael  to  meet  them.  And  God  only 
knew  where  Monsieur  le  Baron  was.  He  had  gone, 
it  was  said,  to  the  war  in  some  civil  capacity. 

As  they  stood  on  deck,  Denise  soon  perceived  the 
little  pier  where  there  were,  even  at  this  early  hour, 
a  few  of  those  indefatigable  Mediterranean  Wal- 
tons  who  fish  and  fish  and  catch  nothing,  all  through 
the    sunny    day.     Presently    Mademoiselle    Brun 


190  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

caught  sight  of  a  small  dot  of  colour  which  seemed 
to  move  spasmodically  up  and  down. 

"  I  see  the  parasol,"  she  said,  "  of  Jane  de  Melide. 
"What  good  friends  we  have  !  " 

And  presently  they  were  near  enough  to  wave  a 
handkerchief  in  answer  to  the  Baroness  de  Melide's 
vigorous  salutations.  The  yacht  crept  around  the 
pier-head,  and  was  soon  made  fast  to  a  small  white 
buoy.  While  a  boat  was  being  lowered,  the  baron- 
ess, in  a  gay  Parisian  dress,  walked  impatiently 
backward  and  forward,  waved  her  parasol,  and 
called  out  incoherent  remarks,  which  Mademoiselle 
Brun  answered  by  a  curt  gesture  of  the  hand. 

"  My  poor  friend ! "  exclaimed  the  baroness,  as 
she  embraced  Mademoiselle  Brun.  "My  dear 
Denise,  you  are  a  brave  woman.  I  have  heard  all 
about  you." 

And  her  quick,  dancing  eyes  took  in  at  a  glance 
that  Denise  had  come  against  her  will,  and  Made- 
moiselle Brun  had  brought  her.  Of  which  Denise 
was  ignorant,  for  the  sunshine  and  brightness  of 
the  scene  affected  her  and  made  her  happy. 

"  Surely,"  she  said,  as  the}^  walked  the  length  of 
the  pier  together,  "  the  bad  news  has  been  exagger- 
ated. The  war  will  soon  be  over  and  we  shall  be 
happy  again." 

"  Do  not  talk  of  it,"  cried  the  baroness.  "  It  is  a 
horror.  I  saw  Lory,  after  Worth,  and  that  was 
enough  war  for  me.  And,  figure  to  yourself ! — I 
am  all  alone  in  this  great  house.  It  is  a  charity  to 
come   and   stay  with  me.     Lory  has  gone  to  the 


A  WOMAX  OF  ACTION  191 

front.  My  husband,  who  said  he  loved  me — where 
is  he?  Bonjour,  and  he  is  gone.  He  leaves  me 
without  a  regret.  And  I,  who  cry  my  eyes  out; 
or  would  cry  them  out  if  I  were  a  fool — such  as 
mademoiselle  thinks  me.  Ah  !  I  do  not  know  what 
has  come  to  all  the  men." 

"  But  I  do,"  said  mademoiselle,  who  had  seen  war 
before. 

And  the  baroness,  looking  at  that  still  face, 
laughed  her  gay  little  inconsequent  laugh. 

A  carriage  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  shade  of 
the  trees  on  the  market-place,  its  smart  horses  and 
men  forming  a  strong  contrast  to  the  untidy  town 
and  slipshod  idlers.  As  usual,  a  game  of  bowls  was 
in  progress,  and  absorbed  all  the  attention  of  the 
local  intelligence. 

"  We  have  half  an  hour  through  the  pine  trees," 
said  the  baroness,  settling  herself  energetically  on 
the  cushions.  "  And,  do  you  know,  I  am  thankful 
to  see  you.  I  thought  you  would  be  prevented 
coming." 

She  glanced  at  Denise  as  she  spoke,  and  with  a 
suddenly  grave  face,  leant  forward,  and  whis- 
pered — 

"The  news  is  bad — the  news  is  bad.  All  this 
has  been  organised  by  Lory  and  my  husband,  who 
told  me,  in  so  many  words,  that  they  must  have  us 
where  they  can  find  us  at  a  moment's  notice.  In 
case — ah,  mon  Diou  !  I  do  not  knov.^  what  is  going 
to  happen  to  us  all." 

"  Then  are  we  to  be  moved  about,  like  ornaments. 


192  THE  ISLE  OF  U^KEST 

from  one  safe  place  to  another?"  asked  Denise, 
with  a  laugh  which  was  not  wholly  spontaneous. 

"  I  have  never  been  treated  as  an  ornament  yet," 
put  in  Mademoiselle  Brun,  "  and  it  is  perhaps  rather 
late  to  begin  now." 

Denise  looked  at  her  inquiringl3^ 

"Yes,"  said  the  little  woman,  quietly.  "I  am 
going  to  the  war — if  Jane  will  take  care  of  you 
while  I  am  away." 

"  And  why  should  not  I  go  too  ?  "  asked  Denise. 

"  Because  you  are  too  young  and  too  pretty,  my 
dear — since  you  ask  a  plain  question,"  replied  the 
baroness,  impulsively.  Then  she  turned  toward 
mademoiselle.  "You  know,"  she  said,  "that  my 
precious  stupid  is  organising  a  field  hospital." 

"  I  thought  he  would  find  something  to  do,"  an- 
swered mademoiselle,  curtly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  baroness,  slowly,  "  yes — because 
when  he  was  a  boy  he  had  for  governess  a  certain 
little  woman  whose  teaching  was  deeds,  not  words. 
And  he  is  paying  for  it  himself.  And  we  shall  all 
be  ruined." 

She  spread  out  her  rich  dress,  lay  back  in  her 
luxurious  carriage,  and  smiled  on  Mademoiselle 
Brun  with  something  that  was  not  mirth  at  the 
back  of  her  brown  eyes. 

"I  shall  go  to  him,"  said  mademoiselle.  And 
the  baroness  made  no  reply  for  some  moments. 

"  Do  you  know  what  he  said  ?  "  she  asked.  "  He 
said  we  shall  want  women — old  ones.  I  know  one 
old  woman  who  will  come  !  " 


A  WOMAX  OF  ACTION  193 

Mademoiselle  Avas  buttoning  her  cotton  gloves 
and  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

"  It  was,  of  course,  Lory,"  went  on  the  baroness, 
"  who  encouraged  him  and  told  him  how  to  go 
about  it.  And  then  he  went  back  to  the  front  to 
light.     Mon  Dieu  !  he  can  fight — that  Lory  !  " 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  asked  mademoiselle.  And  the 
baroness  spread  out  her  gloved  hands. 

"  At  the  front — I  cannot  tell  you  more." 

And  mademoiselle  did  not  speak  again.  She 
was  essentially  a  woman  of  her  word.  She  had 
undertaken  to  find  Lory  and  give  him  that  odd, 
inexplicable  message  from  the  abbe.  She  had 
not  undertaken  much  in  her  narrow  life ;  but  she 
had  usually  accomplished,  in  a  quiet,  mouse-like 
way,  that  to  which  she  set  her  hand.  And  now,  as 
she  drove  through  the  smiling  country,  with  which 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  associate  the  idea  of 
war,  she  was  planning  how  she  could  get  to  the 
front  and  Avork  there  under  the  Baron  de  Melide, 
and  find  Lory  de  Vasselot. 

"  They  are  somewhere  near  a  little  place  called 
Sedan,"  said  the  baroness. 

And  Mademoiselle  Brun  set  out  that  same  day 
for  the  little  place  called  Sedan;  then  known 
vaguely  as  a  fortress  on  the  Belgian  frontier,  and 
now  forever  written  in  every  Frenchman's  heart  as 
the  scene  of  one  of  those  stupendous  catastrophes 
to  which  France  seems  liable,  and  from  which  she 
alone  has  the  power  of  recovery.  For,  whatever 
the  history  of  the  French  may  be,  it  has  never  been 


104  THE  ISLE  OF  U:S'EEST 

dull  reading,  and  she  has  shown  the  whole  "world 
that  one  may  carry  a  brave  and  a  light  heart  out 
of  the  deepest  tragedy. 

By  day  and  night  Mademoiselle  Brun,  sitting  up- 
right in  a  dark  corner  of  a  second-class  carriage, 
made  her  way  northward  across  France.  IS'o  one 
questioned  her,  and  she  asked  no  one's  help.  A 
silent  little  old  woman  assuredly  attracts  less  at- 
tention to  her  comings  and  goings  than  any  other 
human  being.  And  on  the  third  day  mademoiselle 
actually  reached  Chalons,  which  many  a  more  im- 
portant traveller  might  at  this  time  have  failed  to 
do.  She  found  the  town  in  confusion,  the  civilians 
bewildered,  the  soldiers  sullen.  No  one  knew  what 
an  hour  might  bring  forth.  It  was  not  even  known 
who  was  in  command.  The  emperor  was  some- 
where near,  but  no  one  knew  where.  General  offi- 
cers were  seeking  their  army-corps.  Private  sol- 
diers were  wandering  in  the  streets  seeking  food 
and  quarters.  The  railway  station  was  blocked 
with  stores  Avhich  had  been  hastily  discharged  from 
trucks  wanted  elsewhere.  And  it  was  no  one's 
business  to  distribute  the  stores. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  wandered  from  shop  to  shop, 
gathering  a  hundred  rumours  but  no  informa- 
tion. "The  emperor  is  dying — Macmahon  is 
Avounded,"  a  butcher  told  her,  as  he  mechanic- 
ally sharpened  his  knife  at  her  approach,  though 
he  had  not  as  much  as  a  bone  in  his  shop  to  sell 
her. 

She  stopped  a  cuirassier  riding  a  lame  horse,  his 


A  WOMAN  OF  ACTION  195 

own  leg  hastily  bandaged  with  a  piece  of  coloured 
calico. 

"What  regiment?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  no  regiment.  There  is  nothing  left. 
You  see  in  me  the  colonel,  and  the  majors,  and  the 
captains.  I  am  the  regiment,"  he  answered  with 
a  laugh  that  made  mademoiselle  bite  her  steady 
lip. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  Can  you  give  me  a  little 
money  ?  " 

"  I  can  give  you  a  franc.  I  have  not  too  much 
myself.     Where  have  you  come  from  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  None  of  us  knew  where  we 
were." 

He  thanked  her,  observed  that  he  was  very 
hungry,  and  rode  on.  She  found  a  night's  lodging 
at  a  seed-chandler's  who  had  no  seeds  to  sell. 

"  They  will  not  need  them  this  year,"  he  said. 
"  The  Prussians  are  riding  over  the  corn." 

The  next  morning  the  indomitable  little  woman 
went  on  her  way  toward  Sedan  in  a  forage-cart 
which  was  going  to  the  front.  She  told  the  cor- 
poral in  charge  that  she  was  attached  to  the  Baron 
de  Melide's  field  hospital  and  must  get  to  her 
work. 

"  You  will  not  like  it  when  you  get  there,  my 
brave  lady,"  said  the  man,  good-humouredly,  mak- 
ing room  for  her. 

"  I  shall  like  it  better  than  doing  nothing  here," 
she  replied. 


196  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

And  so  they  set  forth  through  the  country  heavy 
with  harvest.  It  ^A-as  the  second  of  September, 
The  corn  was  ripe,  the  leaves  were  already  turning ; 
for  it  had  been  a  dry  summer,  and  since  April  hardly 
any  rain  had  fallen. 

It  was  getting  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they 
met  a  man  in  a  dog-cart  driving  at  a  great  pace. 
He  pulled  up  when  he  saw  them.  His  face  was 
the  colour  of  lead,  his  eyes  were  startlingl}'"  blood- 
shot. 

"  This  parishioner  has  been  badly  scared,"  mut- 
tered the  soldier  who  was  driving  Mademoiselle 
Brun. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  the  stranger  in  a 
high,  thin  voice. 

"  To  Sedan." 

"  Then  turn  back,"  he  cried ;  "  Sedan  is  no  place 
for  a  woman.  It  is  a  hell  on  earth.  I  saw  it  all, 
mon  Dieu.  I  saw  it  all.  I  was  at  Bazeilles.  I 
saw  the  children  thrown  into  the  windows  of  the 
burning  houses.  I  saw  the  Bavarians  shoot  our 
women  in  the  streets.  I  saw  the  troops  rush  into 
Sedan  like  rabbits  into  their  holes,  and  then  the 
Prussians  bombarded  the  town.  They  had  six  hun- 
dred guns  all  round  the  town,  and  they  fired  upon 
that  little  place  which  was  packed  full  like  a  sheep- 
pen.  It  is  not  war — it  is  butchery.  What  is  the 
good  God  doing  ?    What  is  He  thinking  of  ?  " 

And  the  man,  who  had  the  pasty  face  of  a  clerk 
or  a  commercial  traveller,  raised  his  whip  to  heaven 
in  a  gesture  of  fierce  anger.     Mademoiselle  Brun 


A  WOMAN  OF  ACTION  197 

looked  at  him  with  measuring  eyes.  He  was  ahnost 
a  man  at  that  moment.  But  perhaps  her  standard 
of  manhood  was  too  high. 

"  And  is  Sedan  taken  ?  "  she  asked  quietly,, 

"  Sedan  is  taken.  Macmahon  is  wounded.  The 
emperor  is  prisoner,  and  the  ^vhole  French  army  has 
surrendered.  Ninety  thousand  men.  The  Prus- 
sians had  two  hundred  and  forty  thousand  men. 
Ah  !     That  emperor — that  scoundrel !  " 

Mademoiselle  Brun  looked  at  him  coldly,  but  with- 
out surprise.  She  had  dealt  with  Frenchmen  all  her 
life,  and  probably  expected  that  the  fallen  should 
be  reviled — an  unfortunate  characteristic  in  an  oth- 
erwise great  national  spirit. 

"  And  the  cavalry  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Ah ! "  cried  the  man,  and  again  his  dull  eye 
flashed.  "  The  cavalry  were  splendid.  They  tried 
to  cut  their  way  out.  They  passed  through  the 
Prussian  cavalry  and  actually  faced  the  infantry, 
but  the  fire  Avas  terrible.  No  man  ever  saw  or 
heard  anything  like  it.  The  cuirassiers  were  mown 
doAvn  like  corn.  The  cavalry  exists  no  longer,  ma- 
dame,  but  its  name  is  immortal." 

There  was  nothing  poetic  about  Mademoiselle 
Brun,  who  listened  rather  coldly. 

"  And  you,"  she  asked,  "  what  are  you  ?  you  are 
assuredly  a  Frenchman  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  am  a  Frenchman." 

"  And  yet  your  back  is  turned,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Brun,  "  toward  the  Prussians." 

"  I  am  a  writer,"  explained  the  man — "  a  journal- 


198  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

ist.     It  is  my  duty  to  go  to  some  safe  place  and 
write  of  all  that  I  have  seen." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mademoiselle  Brun.  "  Let  us,  my 
friend,"  she  said,  turning  to  her  companion  on  the 
forage-cart,  "  proceed  toward  Sedan.  We  are  for- 
tunately not  in  the  position  of  monsieur." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   SEARCH 

"  Wisdom  is  ofttimes  nearer  when  we  stoop 
Than  when  we  soar." 

There  were  many  who  thought  the  war  was  over 
that  rainy  morning  after  the  fall  of  Sedan.  For 
events  were  made  to  follow  each  other  quickly  by 
those  three  sleepless  men  who  moved  kings  and  em- 
perors and  armies  at  their  will.  Bismarck,  Moltke, 
and  Roon  must  have  slept  but  little — if  they  closed 
their  eyes  at  all — between  the  evening  of  the  first 
and  the  morning  of  the  third  day  of  September. 
For  human  foresight  must  have  its  limits,  and  the 
German  leaders  could  hardly  have  dreamt,  in  their 
most  optimistic  moments,  of  the  triumph  that 
awaited  them.  Bismarck  could  hardly  have  fore- 
seen that  he  should  have  to  provide  for  an  imperial 
prisoner.  Moltke's  marvellous  plans  of  campaign 
could  scarcely  have  embraced  the  details  necessary 
to  the  immediate  disposal  of  ninety  thousand  pris- 
oners of  war,  with  many  guns  and  horses  and  much 
ammunition. 

It  was  but  twenty-four  hours  after  he  had  left 
Sedan  to  seek,  and  seek  in  vain,  the  King  of 
Prussia,  that  the  third  Napoleon — the  modern  man 
of  destiny  who  had  climbed  so  high  and  fallen  so 

199 


200  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

very  low — set  out  on  his  journey  to  the  Palace  of 
Wilhelmshohe,  never  to  set  foot  on  French  soil 
again.  For  he  was  to  seek  a  home,  and.  finally  a 
grave,  in  England,  where  his  bones  will  lie  till 
that  day  when  France  shall  think  fit  to  deposit 
them  by  those  of  the  founder  of  the  adventurous 
dynasty. 

Among  those  who  stood  in  the  muddy  street  of 
Donchery  that  morning,  and  watched  in  silence  the 
departure  of  the  simple  carriage,  was  Mademoiselle 
Brun,  whose  stern  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  the 
sphinx-like  face,  met  for  an  instant  the  dull  and 
extinct  gaze  of  the  man  who  had  twisted  all 
France  round  his  little  finger. 

When  the  cavalcade  had  passed  by,  she  turned 
away  and  w^alked  toward  Sedan.  The  road  was 
crowded  with  troops,  coming  and  going  almost  in 
silence.  Long  strings  of  baggage-carts  splashed 
past.  Here  and  there  an  ambulance  waggon  of 
lighter  build  was  allowed  a  quicker  passage.  Mes- 
sengers rode,  or  hurried  on  foot,  one  vray  and  the 
other ;  but  few  spoke,  and  a  hush  seemed  to  hang 
over  all.  There  was  no  cheering  this  morning- 
even  that  was  done.  The  rain  splashed  pitilessly 
down  on  these  men  who  had  won  a  great  victory, 
w^ho  now  hurried  hither  and  thither,  afraid  of  they 
knew  not  what,  cowering  beneath  the  silence  of 
Heaven. 

Mademoiselle  was  stopped  outside  the  gates  of 
Sedan. 

"  You  can  go  no  further  !  "  said  an  under-officer 


THE  SEARCH  201 

of  a  Bavarian  regiment  in  passable  French,  the 
first  to  question  the  coming  or  going  of  this  insig- 
nificant and  self-possessed  woman. 

"  But  I  can  stay  here  ?  "  returned  mademoiselle 
in  German.  In  teaching,  she  had  learnt — which  is 
more  than  many  teachers  do. 

"  Yes,  you  can  stay  here,"  laughed  the  German, 

And  she  stayed  there  patiently  for  hours  in  the 
rain  and  mud.  It  was  afternoon  before  her  reward 
came.  iSTo  one  heeded  her,  as,  standing  on  an 
overturned  gun-carriage,  beneath  her  shabby  um- 
brella, she  watched  the  first  detachment  of  nearly 
ten  thousand  Frenchmen  march  out  of  the  fortress 
to  their  captivity  in  Germany. 

"  No  cavalry  ?  "  she  said  to  a  bystander  when 
the  last  detachment  had  gone. 

"  There  is  no  cavalry  left,  ma  bonne  dame,"  re- 
plied the  old  man  to  whom  she  had  spoken. 

"  No  cavalr}^  left !  And  Lory  de  Vasselot  was 
a  cuirassier.  And  Denise  loved  Lory."  Made- 
moiselle Brun  knew  that,  though  perhaps  Denise 
herself  was  scarcely  aware  of  it.  In  these  three 
thoughts  mademoiselle  told  the  whole  history  of 
Sedan  as  it  affected  her.  Solferino  had,  for  her, 
narrowed  down  to  one  man,  fat  and  old  at  that, 
riding  at  the  head  of  his  troops  on  a  great  horse 
specially  chosen  to  carry  bulk.  The  victory  that 
was  to  mar  one  empire  and  make  another,  years 
after  Solferino,  was  summed  up  in  three  thoughts 
by  the  woman  who  had  the  courage  to  live  frank  I}'- 
in  her  own  small  woman's  world,  who  was  ready 


202  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

to  light — as  resolutely  as  any  fought  at  Sedan — for 
Denise.  She  turned  and  went  down  that  historic 
road,  showing  now,  as  ever,  a  steady  and  coura- 
geous face  to  the  world,  though  all  who  spoke  to  her 
stabbed  her  with  the  words,  "  There  is  no  cavalry 
left — no  cavalry  left,  ma  bonne  dame." 

She  hovered  about  Donchery  and  Sedan,  and  the 
ruins  of  Bazeilles,  for  some  days,  and  made  sure 
that  Lory  de  Vasselot  had  not  gone,  a  prisoner,  to 
Germany,  The  confusion  in  the  French  camp  was 
greater  than  any  had  anticipated,  and  no  reliable 
records  of  any  sort  were  obtainable.  Mademoi- 
selle could  not  even  ascertain  whether  Lory  had 
fought  at  Sedan  ;  but  she  shrewdly  guessed  that 
the  mad  attempt  to  cut  a  Avay  through  the  German 
lines  was  such  as  would  recommend  itself  to  his 
heart.  She  haunted,  therefore,  the  heights  of  Ba- 
zeilles, seeking  among  the  dead  one  who  Avore 
the  cuirassier  uniform.  She  found,  God  knows, 
enough,  but  not  Lory  de  Vasselot. 

All  this  while  she  never  wrote  to  Frejus,  judg- 
ing, with  a  deadly  common  sense,  that  no  news  is 
better  than  bad  news.  Day  by  day  she  continued 
her  self-imposed  task,  on  the  slippery  hill-sides  and 
in  the  muddy  valleys,  until  at  last  she  passed  for  a , 
peasant-woman,  so  bedraggled  was  her  dress,  so 
lined  and  weather-beaten  her  face.  Her  hair  grew 
white  in  those  days,  her  face  greyer.  She  had  not 
even  enough  to  eat.  She  lay  down  and  slept 
whenever  she  could  find  a  roof  to  cover  her.  And 
always,  night  and  day,  she  carried   witli  her  the 


THE  SEARCH  203 

burthen  of  that  bad  news  of  which  she  would  not 
seek  to  relieve  herself  by  the  usual  human  method 
of  telling  it  to  another. 

And  one  day  she  wandered  into  a  church  ten 
miles  on  the  French  side  of  Sedan,  intending  per- 
haps to  tell  her  bad  news  to  One  who  will 
always  listen.  But  she  found  that  this  was  no 
longer  a  house  of  prayer,  for  the  dead  and  dying 
were  lying  in  rows  on  the  floor.  As  she  entered,  a 
tall  man  coming  quickly  out,  almost  knocked  her 
down.  His  arms  were  full  of  cooking  utensils. 
He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves  :  blood-stained,  smoke- 
grimed,  unshaven  and  unwashed.  He  turned  to 
apologise,  and  began  explaining  that  this  was  no 
place  for  a  woman ;  but  he  stopped  short.  It 
was  the  millionaire  Baron  de  Melide. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  sat  suddenl}?-  down  on  a 
bench  near  the  door.  She  did  not  look  at  him. 
Indeed,  she  purposely  looked  away  and  bit  her  lip 
with  her  little  fierce  teeth  because  it  would  quiver. 
In  a  moment  she  had  recovered  herself. 

"•  I  have  come  to  help  you,"  she  said. 

''  God  knoAvs,  we  want  you,"  replied  the  baron — 
a  phlegmatic  man,  who,  nevertheless,  saw  the  quiv- 
ering lip,  and  turned  away  hastily.  For  he  knew 
that  mademoiselle  would  never  forgive  herself,  or 
him,  if  she  broke  down  now. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  with  a  clumsy  gaiety,  "  will  you 
wash  these  plates  and  dishes  ?  You  will  find  the 
pump  in  the  cure's  garden.  "We  have  nurses  and 
doctors,  but  we  have  no  one  to  wash  up.     And  it  is 


204  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

I  who  do  it.     This  is  my  hospital.     I  liave  borroAved 
the  building  from  the  good  God." 

Mademoiselle  was  naturally  a  secretive  woman. 
She  could  even  be  silent  about  her  neighbours' 
affairs.  Susini  had  been  guided  by  a  quick  intui- 
tion, characteristic  of  his  race,  when  he  had  con- 
fided in  this  Frenchwoman.  She  had  been  some 
hours  in  the  baron's  hospital  before  she  even  men- 
tioned Lory's  name. 

"  And  the  Count  de  Yasselot  ?  "  she  inquired,  in 
her  usual  curt  form  of  interrogation,  as  they  were 
taking  a  hurried  and  unceremonious  meal  in  the 
vestry  by  the  light  of  an  altar  candle. 

The  baron  shook  his  head  and  gulped  down  his 
food. 

"  E"o  news  ?  "  inquired  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"JSTone." 

They  continued  to  eat  for  some  minutes  in 
silence. 

"Was  he  at  Sedan?"  asked  mademoiselle,  at 
length. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  baron,  gravely.  And  then 
they  continued  their  meal  in  silence  by  the  light  of 
the  flickering  candle. 

"Have  you  any  one  looking  for  him?"  asked 
mademoiselle,  as  she  rose  from  the  table  and  began 
to  clear  it. 

"  I  have  sent  two  of  my  men  to  do  so,"  replied 
the  baron,  who  was  by  nature  no  more  expansive 
than  his  old  governess.  And  for  some  days  there 
was  no  mention  of  de  Yasselot  between  them. 


THE  SEARCH  205 

Mademoiselle  found  plenty  of  work  to  do  besides 
the  menial  labours  of  which  she  had  relieved  the 
man  who  deemed  himself  fit  for  nothing  more  com- 
plicated than  washing  dishes  and  providing  funds. 
She  wrote  letters  for  the  wounded,  and  also  for  the 
dead.  She  had  a  way  of  looking  at  those  who 
groaned  unnecessarily  and  out  of  idle  self-pity, 
which  was  conducive  to  silence,  and  therefore  to 
the  comfort  of  others.  She  smoothed  no  pillows 
and  proffered  no  soft  words  of  sympathy.  But  it 
was  she  who  found  out  that  the  cure  had  a  piano. 
She  it  was  who  took  two  hospital  attendants  to  the 
priest's  humble  house  and  brought  the  instrument 
away.  She  had  it  placed  inside  the  altar  rails,  and 
fought  the  cure  afterward  in  the  vestry  as  to  the 
heinousness  of  the  proceeding. 

"  You  will  not  play  secular  airs  ?  "  pleaded  the 
old  man. 

"  All  that  there  is  of  the  most  secular,"  replied 
she,  inexorably.  "And  the  recording  angels  will, 
no  doubt,  enter  it  to  my  account — and  not  yours, 
monsieur  le  cure." 

So  Mademoiselle  Brun  played  to  the  wounded  all 
through  the  long  afternoons  until  her  fingers  grew 
stiff.  And  the  doctors  said  that  she  saved  more 
than  one  fretting  life.  She  Avas  not  a  great  mu- 
sician, but  she  had  a  soothing,  old-fashioned  touch. 
She  only  played  such  ancient  airs  as  she  could  re- 
member. And  the  more  she  plaved  the  more  she 
remembered.  It  seemed  to  come  back  to  her — each 
day  a  little  more.     Which  was  odd,  for  the  music 


206  THE  ISLE  OF  UJ^REST 

was,  as  she  had  promised  the  cure,  secular  enough, 
and  could  not,  therefore,  have  been  inspired  by  her 
sacred  surroundings  within  the  altar  rails.  Though, 
after  all,  it  may  have  been  that  those  who  recorded 
this  sacrilege  against  Mademoiselle  Brun,  not  only 
made  a  cross-entry  on  the  credit  side,  but  helped 
her  memory  to  recall  that  forgotten  music. 

Thus  the  days  slipped  by,  and  little  news  filtered 
through  to  the  quiet  Ardennes  village.  The  tide 
of  war  had  rolled  on.  The  Germans,  it  was  said, 
were  already  halfway  to  Paris.  And  from  Paris 
itself  the  tidings  were  well-nigh  incredible.  One 
thing  alone  was  certain ;  the  Bonaparte  dynasty 
was  at  an  end  and  the  mighty  schemes  of  an  am- 
bitious woman  had  crumbled  like  ashes  within  her 
hands.  All  the  plotting  of  the  Regency  had  fallen 
to  pieces  with  the  fall  of  the  greatest  schemer  of 
them  all,  whom  the  Paris  government  fatuously  at- 
tempted to  hookwink.  Napoleon  the  Third  was 
indeed  a  clever  man,  since  his  own  wife  never  knew 
how  clever  he  was.  So  France  was  now  a  howling 
Republic — a  Republic  being  a  community  wherein 
every  man  is  not  only  equal  to,  but  better  than  his 
neighbour,  and  may  therefore  shout  his  loudest. 

No  great  battles  followed  Sedan,  France  had 
but  one  army  left,  and  that  was  shut  up  in  Metz, 
under  the  command  of  another  of  the  Paris  plotters 
who  was  a  bad  general  and  not  even  a  good  con- 
spirator. 

Poor  France  had  again  fallen  into  bad  hands.  It 
seemed  the  end  of  all  things.     And  yet  for  Made- 


THE  SEARCH  207 

moiselle  Brun,  who  loved  France  as  well  as  any,  all 
these  troubles  were  one  day  dispersed  by  a  single 
note  of  a  man's  voice.  She  was  at  the  piano,  it  be- 
ing afternoon,  and  was  so  used  to  the  shuffling  of 
the  bearer's  feet  that  she  no  longer  turned  to  look 
when  one  was  carried  in  and  another,  a  dead  one 
perhaps,  was  carried  out. 

She  heard  a  laugh,  however,  that  made  her  music 
suddenly  mute.  It  was  Lory  de  Vasselot  who  was 
laughing,  as  they  carried  hun  into  the  little  church. 
He  was  explaining  to  the  baron  that  he  had  heard 
of  his  hospital,  and  had  caused  himself  to  be  car- 
ried thither  as  soon  as  he  could  be  moved  from  the 
cottage,  where  he  had  been  cared  for  by  some  peas- 
ants. 

The  laugh  was  silenced,  however,  at  the  sight  of 
Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"  You  here,  mademoiselle  ?  "  he  said.  "  Alone,  I 
hope,"  he  added,  wincing  as  the  bearers  set  him 
down. 

"  Yes,  I  am  alone.  Denise  is  safe  at  Frejus  with 
Jane  de  Melide." 

"Ah!" 

"  And  your  wounds  ?  "  said  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"A  sabre-cut  on  the  right  shoulder,  a  bullet 
through  the  left  leg— voila  tout.  I  was  in  Sedan, 
and  we  tried  to  get  out.  That  is  all  I  know,  made- 
moiselle." 

Mademoiselle  stood  over  him  with  her  hands 
crossed  at  her  waist,  looking  down  at  him  with 
compressed  lips. 


208  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

"  Not  dangerous  ?  "  she  inquired,  glancing  at  his 
bandages,  which  indeed  were  numerous  enough. 

"  I  shall  be  in  the  saddle  again  in  three  weeks, 
they  tell  me.  If  the  war  only  lasts — "  He  gave 
an  odd,  eager  laugh.     "  If  the  war  only  lasts " 

Then  he  suddenly  turned  white  and  lost  conscious- 
ness. 


CHAPTEE  XX 

WOUNDED 

"  Le  temps  fortifle  ce  qu'il  n'tbranle  pas." 

That  night  mademoiselle  wrote  to  Denise  at 
Frejus,  breaking  at  last  her  long  silence.  That  she 
gave  the  barest  facts,  may  be  safely  concluded. 
Neither  did  she  volunteer  a  thought  or  a  conclusion. 
She  was  as  discreet  as  she  was  secretive.  There 
are  some  secrets  which  are  infinitely  safer  in  a 
woman's  custody  than  in  a  man's.  You  may  tell  a 
man  in  confidence  the  amount  of  your  income,  and 
it  will  go  ro  further ;  but  in  affairs  of  the  heart, 
and  not  of  the  pocket,  a  woman  is  safer.  Indeed, 
you  may  tell  a  woman  your  heart's  secret,  provided 
she  keeps  it  where  she  keeps  her  own.  And  Made- 
moiselle Brun  had  only  one  thought  night  and  day  : 
the  happiness  of  Denise.  That,  and  a  single  mem- 
ory— the  secret,  perhaps,  which  was  such  a  stand- 
ing joke  at  the  school  in  the  Kue  du  Cherche-Midi 
made  up  the  whole  life  of  this  obscure  woman. 

Two  days  later  she  gave  Lory  Susini's  message ; 
and  de  Vasselot  sent  for  the  surgeon. 

"I  am  going,"  he  said.  "Patch  me  up  for  a 
journey." 

The  surgeon  had  dealt  so  freely  with  life  and 
death  that  he  only  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

209 


210  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

"  You  cannot  go  alone,"  he  said — "  a  man  with 
one  arm  and  one  leg." 

Mademoiselle  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  She 
was  willing  enough  that  Lory  should  undertake  this 
journey,  for  he  must  needs  pass  through  Provence 
to  get  to  Corsica.  She  did  not  attempt  to  lead 
events,  but  was  content  to  follow  and  steer  them 
from  time  to  time. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  south  of  France,"  she  said. 
"  The  baron  needs  me  no  longer  since  the  hospital 
is  to  be  moved  to  Paris.  I  can  conduct  Monsieur 
de  Vasselot — a  part  of  the  way,  at  all  events." 

And  the  rest  arranged  itself.  Five  da,js  later 
Lory  de  Vasselot  was  lifted  from  the  railway  car- 
riage to  the  Baroness  de  Melide's  victoria  at  Frejus 
station. 

"  Madame's  son  is,  no  doubt,  from  Sedan  ?  "  said 
the  courteous  station-master,  who  personally  at- 
tended to  the  wounded  man. 

"He  is  from  Sedan — but  he  is  not  my  son.  I 
never  had  one,"  replied  mademoiselle  with  com- 
posure. 

She  was  tired,  for  she  had  hardly  slept  since 
Lory  came  under  her  care.  She  sat  open-eyed, 
with  that  knowledge  which  is  given  to  so  tew — the 
knowledge  of  the  gradual  completion  of  a  set  pur- 
pose. 

They  had  travelled  all  night,  and  it  was  not  yet 
midday  when  mademoiselle  first  saw,  and  pointed 
out  to  Lory,  the  white  turret  of  the  chateau  among 
the  pines. 


WOUNDED  211 

The  baroness  was  on  the  steps  to  greet  them. 
Like  many  persons  of  a  ga3''  exterior,  she  had  a  kind 
heart  and  a  quick  sympathy.  She  often  did,  and 
said,  the  right  thing,  when  cleverer  people  found 
themselves  at  fault.  She  laughed  when  she  saw 
Lory  lying  full  length  across  her  smart  carriage — 
laughed,  despite  his  white  cheeks  and  the  grey 
weariness  of  mademoiselle's  face.  She  seemed  part 
of  the  sunshine  and  the  brisk  resinous  air. 

"  Ah,  my  cousin,"  she  cried,  "  it  does  the  eyes 
good  to  see  you !  I  should  like  to  carry  you  up 
these  steps," 

"  In  three  weeks,"  answered  de  Yasselot,  "  I  will 
carry  you  down." 

"  His  room  is  on  the  ground  floor,"  said  the  bar- 
oness to  mademoiselle,  in  an  aside.  "  You  are  tired, 
my  dear — I  see  it.  Your  room  is  the  same  as  be- 
fore ;  you  must  lie  down  this  afternoon.  I  will 
take  care  of  Lory,  and  Denise  will — but,  where  is 
Denise  ?    I  thought  she  was  behind  me." 

She  paused  to  guide  the  men  who  were  carrying 
de  Vasselot  through  the  broad  doorway. 

"  Denise ! "  she  cried  without  looking  round, 
"  Denise  !  where  are  you  ?  " 

Then  turning,  she  saw  Denise  coming  slowly 
down  the  stairs.  Her  face  was  whiter  than  Made- 
moiselle Brun's.  Her  eyes,  clear  and  clever,  were 
fixed  on  Lory's  face  as  if  seeking  something  there. 
There  was  an  odd  silence  for  a  moment — such  as 
the  superstitious  say,  is  caused  by  the  passage  of  an 
angel  among  human  beings — even  the  men  carrying 


212  THE  ISLE  OF  UNPwEST 

Lory  seemed  to  tread  softly.  It  was  he  who  broke 
the  spell. 

"  Ah,  mademoiselle ! "  he  said  gaily,  "  the  fortune 
of  war,  you  see !  " 

"  But  it  might  have  been  so  much  worse," 
said  the  baroness  in  a  whisper  to  Mademoiselle 
Brun.  "  Bon  Dieu,  it  might  have  been  so  much 
worse  !  " 

And  at  luncheon  they  were  gay  enough.  For  a 
national  calamity  is,  after  all,  secondary  to  a  family 
calamity.  Only  de  Vasselot  and  Mademoiselle  Brun 
had  been  close  to  war,  and  it  was  no  new  thing  to 
them.  Theirs  was,  moreover,  that  sudden  gaiety 
which  comes  from  reaction.  The  contrast  of  their 
present  surroundings  to  that  little  hospital  in  a 
church  within  canon-sound  of  Sedan — the  quiet  of 
this  country  house,  the  baroness,  Denise  herself 
young  and  grave — were  sufficient  to  chase  away 
the  horror  of  the  past  weeks. 

It  was  the  baroness  who  kept  the  conversation 
alert,  asking  a  hundred  questions,  and,  as  often  as 
not,  disbelieving  the  answers. 

"  And  you  assure  me,"  she  said  for  the  hundredth 
time,  "  that  my  poor  husband  is  well.  That  he 
does  not  miss  me,  I  cannot  of  course  believe  with 
the  best  will  in  the  world,  thougli  Mademoiselle 
Brun  assert  it  with  her  gravest  air.  ]S"ow,  tell  me, 
how  does  he  spend  his  day  ?  " 

"  Mostly  in  washing  up  dishes,"  replied  mademoi- 
selle, looking  severely  at  the  baron's  butler,  whose 
hand   happened   to   shake  at  that  moment  as  he 


WOUNDED  213 

offered  a  plate.  "  But  he  is  not  good  at  it.  He 
was  ignorant  of  the  properties  of  soda  until  I  in- 
formed him." 

"  But  there  is  no  glory  in  that,"  protested  the 
baroness.  "It  was  only  because  he  assured  me 
that  he  would  not  run  into  danger,  and  Avould 
inevitably  be  made  a  grand  commander  of  the 
Legion  of  Honour,  that  he  was  allowed  to  go.  I 
do  not  see  the  glory  in  washing  up  dishes,  my 
friends,  I  tell  you  frankly." 

"  No ;  but  it  is  there,"  said  mademoiselle. 

After  luncheon  Lory,  using  his  crutches,  made 
his  way  laboriously  to  the  verandah  that  ran  the 
length  of  the  southern  face  of  the  house.  It  was 
all  hung  with  creepers,  and  shaded  from  the  sun  by 
a  dense  curtain  of  foliage.  Here  heliotrope  grew 
like  a  vine  on  a  trellis  against  the  wall,  and  semi- 
tropical  flowers  bloomed  in  a  bewildering  confusion. 
A  little  fountain  trickled  sleepily  near  at  hand,  in 
the  mossy  basin  of  which  a  talkative  family  of  frogs 
had  their  habitation. 

Half  asleep  in  a  long  chair,  de  Yasselot  was 
already  coming  under  the  influence  of  this  most 
healing  air  in  the  world,  when  the  rustle  of  a  skirt 
made  him  turn. 

"  It  is  only  I,  my  poor  Lory,"  said  the  baroness, 
looking  down  at  him  with  an  odd  smile.  "  You 
turned  so  quickly.  Is  there  anything  you  want — 
anything  in  my  power  to  give  you,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  parted  with  that  already." 

"To  that — scullery-man,  you  mean.     Yes,  per- 


214  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

haps  you  are  too  late.  It  is  so  wise  to  ask  too  late, 
mon  cousin." 

She  laughed  gaily,  and  turned  away  toward  the 
house.  Then  she  stopped  suddenly  and  came  back 
to  him. 

"  Seriously,"  she  said,  looking  down  at  him  with 
a  grave  face — "  seriously.  My  prayers  should  always 
be  for  any  woman  who  became  your  wife — ^you,  and 
your  soldiering.  Ciel !  it  would  kill  any  woman  who 
really  cared " 

She  broke  off  and  contemplated  him  as  he  lay  at 
full  length. 

"And  she  might  care — a  little — that  poor  woman." 

"  She  would  have  to  care  for  France  as  well,"  said 
de  Vasselot,  momentarily  grave  at  the  thought  of 
his  country. 

"  I  know,"  said  the  baroness,  with  a  wise  shake  of 
the  head.     "  Mon  ami,  I  know  all  about  that." 

"  I  have  some  new  newspapers  from  Paris,"  she 
added,  going  toward  the  house.  "  I  will  send  them 
to  you." 

And  it  was  Denise  who  brought  the  newspapers. 
She  handed  them  to  him  in  silence.  Their  eyes 
met  for  an  instant,  and  both  alike  had  that  question- 
ing look  which  had  shone  in  Denise's  eyes  as  she 
came  downstairs.  They  seemed  to  know  each  other 
now  better  than  they  had  done  when  they  last  parted 
at  the  Casa  Perucca. 

There  was  a  chair  near  to  his,  and  Denise  sat 
down  there  as  if  it  had  been  placed  on  purpose — as 
perhaps  it  had — by  Fate.     They  were  silent  for  a 


WOUNDED  215 

few  moments,  gathering  perhaps  the  threads  that 
connected  one  with  the  other.  For  absence  does 
not  always  break  such  threads,  and  sometimes 
strengthens  them.  Then  Lory  spoke  without  look- 
ing at  her. 

"  You  received  the  letter  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Which  letter  ?  "  she  asked  hurriedly ;  and  then 
closed  her  lips  and  slowly  changed  colour. 

There  was  only  one  letter,  of  course.  There 
could  be  no  other.  For  it  had  never  been  sug- 
gested that  Lory  should  write  to  her. 

"Yes;  I  received  it,"  she  answered.  "Thank 
you." 

"  Will  you  answer  one  question  ?  "  asked  Lory. 

"  If  it  is  a  fair  one,"  she  answered  with  a  laugh. 

"  And  who  is  to  decide  whether  it  is  a  fair  one  or 
not  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  will  do  that,"  replied  Denise  with  de- 
cision. 

She  knew  the  weakness  of  her  position,  and  was 
prepared  to  defend  it.  Her  eyes  were  shining,  and 
the  colour  had  not  faded  from  her  cheeks  3'et.  Lory 
held  his  lip  between  his  teeth  as  he  looked  at  her. 
She  waited  for  the  question,  without  meeting  his 
eyes,  with  a  baffling  little  smile  tilting  the  corners 
of  her  lips. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  suppose  you 
have  decided  not  to  ask  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  decided  to  draw  conclusions  instead,  ma- 
demoiselle." 

"Ah!" 


216  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  What  does  '  Ah  ! '  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means  that  you  will  draw  them  wrong,"  she 
answered ;  and  yet  the  tone  of  her  voice  seemed  to 
suggest  that  she  would  rather  like  to  hear  the  con- 
clusions. 

"  One  may  conclude  then,  simply,  that  you 
changed  your  mind  after  you  wrote,  and  claimed  a 
woman's  privilege." 

"Yes " 

"  That  you  were  good  enough  to  trust  me  to  send 
the  letter  back  unopened  ;  and  yet  you  would  not 
trust  me  with  the  contents.  One  may  conclude 
that  it  is,  therefore,  also  a  woman's  privilege  to  be 
of  two  minds  at  the  same  time." 

"  If  she  likes,"  answered  Denise.  To  which  wise 
men  know  that  there  is  no  answer. 

De  Yasselot  made  a  tragic  gesture  with  his  one 
available  hand,  and  cast  his  eyes  upward  in  a  mute 
appeal  to  the  gods.  He  sighed  heavily,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face  seemed  to  indicate  a  hopeless 
despair. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  solici- 
tude which  was  perhaps  slightly  exaggerated. 

"  What  is  one  to  understand  ?  I  ask  you  that  ?  " 
said  Lory,  turning  toward  her  almost  fiercely. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  understand,  monsieur  ?  " 
asked  Denise,  quietly. 

"  Mon  Dieu — you !  " 

"  Me !  " 

"  Yes.  I  cannot  understand  you  at  all.  You  ask 
my  advice,  and  then  you  act  contrary  to  it.     You 


WOUNDED  217 

write  me  a  letter,  and  you  forbid  me  to  open  it. 
Ah !  I  was  a  fool  to  send  that  letter  back.  I  have 
often  thought  so  since " 

Denise  was  looking  gravely  at  him  with  an  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes  which  made  him  stop,  and 
laugh,  and  contradict  himself  suddenly. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  mademoiselle,  I  was  not  a 
fool  to  send  it  back.  It  was  the  only  thing  I  could 
do;  and  yet  I  almost  thought,  just  now,  that  you 
were  not  glad  that  I  had  done  so." 

"  Then  you  thought  quite  wrong,"  said  Denise, 
sharply,  with  a  gleam  of  anger  in  her  eyes.  "  You 
think  that  it  is  only  I  who  am  difficult  to  under- 
stand. You  are  no  easier.  They  say  in  Balagna 
that,  if  you  liked,  you  could  be  a  sort  of  king  in 
Northern  Corsica,  and  I  am  quite  sure  you  have  the 
manners  of  one." 

"Thank  you,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  with  a 
laugh. 

"  Oh — I  do  not  mean  the  agreeable  side  of  the 
character.  I  meant  that  you  are  rather  given  to 
ordering  people  about.  You  send  an  incompetent 
and  stupid  little  priest  to  take  us  by  the  hand,  and 
lead  us  out  of  the  Casa  Perucca  like  two  school- 
children, without  so  much  as  a  word  of  explana- 
tion." 

"  But  I  had  not  your  permission  to  write  to  you." 

Denise  laughed  gaily. 

"  So  far  as  that  goes  you  had  not  my  permission 
to  order  me  out  of  my  own  house;  to  send  a 
steamer  to  St.  Florent  to  fetch  me ;  to  treat  me  as 


218  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

if  I  were  a  regiment,  in  a  word — and  yet  you  did 
it,  monsieur." 

Lory  sat  up  in  his  desire  to  defend  himself, 
winced  and  lay  down  again. 

"  I  fancy  it  is  your  Corsican  blood,"  said  Denise, 
reflectively.  She  rose  and  rearranged  a  very  sport- 
ing dustcloth  which  the  baroness  had  laid  across 
the  wounded  man's  legs,  and  which  his  movement 
had  cast  to  one  side.  "However,  it  remains  for 
me  to  thank  you,"  she  said,  and  did  not  sit  down 
again. 

"It  may  have  been  badly  done,  mademoiselle," 
he  said  earnestly,  "  but  I  still  think  that  it  was  the 
wisest  thing  to  do." 

"  And  stiU  you  give  me  no  reasons,"  she  said  with- 
out turning  to  look  at  him.  She  was  standing  at 
the  edge  of  the  verandah,  looking  thoughtfully  out 
at  the  matchless  view.  For  the  house  stood  above 
the  pines  which  lay  like  a  dusky  green  carpet  be- 
tween it  and  the  Mediterranean.  "  And  I  am  not 
going  to  ask  you  for  them,"  she  added  with  an  odd 
little  smile,  not  devoid  of  that  deep  wisdom  with 
which  it  is  to  be  presumed  women  are  born ;  for 
they  have  it  when  it  is  most  useful  to  them,  and  at 
an  age  when  their  masculine  contemporaries  are 
singularly  ignorant  of  human  nature. 

"  I  am  going,"  she  said  after  a  pause.  "  Jane 
told  me  that  I  must  not  tire  you." 

"  Then  stay,"  he  said.  "  It  is  only  when  you  are 
not  there  that  I  find  it  tiring." 

She  did  not  answer,  and  did  not  move   until  a 


WOUNDED  219 

servant  came  noiselessly  from  the  house  and  ap- 
proached Lory. 

"  It  is  a  man,"  he  said,  "  who  will  not  be  denied, 
and  says  he  must  speak  to  Monsieur  le  Comte.  He 
is  from  Corsica." 

Denise  turned,  and  her  face  was  quite  changed. 
She  had  until  that  moment  forgotten  Corsica. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FOE   FRANCE 
"Lov'd  I  not  honour  more." 

The  servant  retired  to  bring  the  new  arrival  to 
the  verandah.  Denise  followed  him,  and,  after  a 
few  paces,  returned  to  Lory. 

"  If  it  is  one  of  my  people,"  she  said,  "  I  should 
like  to  see  him  before  he  goes." 

The  man  who  followed  the  servant  to  the  veran- 
dah a  minute  later  had  a  dark,  clean-shaven  face,  all 
drawn  into  fine  lines  and  innumerable  minute 
wrinkles.  Such  lines  mean  starvation  ;  but  in  this 
case  they  told  a  tale  of  the  past,  for  the  dark  eyes 
had  no  hungry  look.  They  looked  hunted — that 
was  all.  The  glitter  of  starvation  had  left  them. 
He  glanced  uneasily  around,  took  off  his  hat  and 
bowed  curtly  to  Lory.  The  hat  and  the  clothes 
were  new.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  at  the  serv- 
ant, who  lingered,  with  a  haughty  stare  which  must 
have  been  particularly  offensive  to  that  respectable 
Parisian  menial.  For  the  Corsicans  are  bad  serv- 
ants, and  despise  good  servitude  in  others.  When 
the  footman  had  gone,  the  newcomer  turned  to 
Lory,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice — 

"  I  saw  you  at  Toulon.     I  have  not  seen  many 

S20 


FOR  FKANCE  221 

faces  in  11137^  life — for  I  have  spent  most  of  it  in  the 
macquis — so  I  remember  those  I  have  once  met.  I 
knew  the  Count  de  Yasselot  when  he  was  a  young 
man,  and  he  was  what  you  are  now.  You  are  a  de 
Yasselot." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Lory. 

"  I  thought  so.  That  is  why  I  followed  you  from 
Toulon — spending  my  last  sou  to  do  so." 

He  stopped.  His  two  hands  were  in  the  pockets 
of  his  dark  corduroy  trousers,  and  he  jerked  them 
out  with  a  sudden  movement,  bringing  the  empty 
pockets  to  view. 

"  Yoila !  "  he  said,  "  and  I  want  to  go  to  the  war. 
So  I  came  to  vou." 

"  Good,"  said  Lory,  looking  him  up  and  down. 
"  You  look  tough,  mon  ami." 

"  I  am,"  answered  the  Corsican.  "  Ten  years  of 
macquis,  winter  and  summer — for  one  thing  or 
another — do  not  make  a  man  soft.  I  was  told — 
the  Abbe  Susini  told  me — that  France  wants  every 
man  she  can  get,  so  I  thought  I  would  try  a  little 
fighting." 

"  Good,"  said  Lory  again.  "  You  will  find  it  very 
good  fun." 

The  man  gave  a  twisted  grin.  He  had  forgotten 
how  to  laugh.  He  drew  forward  the  chair  that 
Denise  had  just  quitted,  and  sat  down  close  to  Lory 
in  quite  a  friendly  way,  for  there  is  a  bond  that 
draws  fighting  men  and  roaming  men  together  de- 
spite accidental  differences  of  station. 

"  One  sees,"  he  said,  "  that  you  are  a  de  Yasselot. 


222  THE  ISLE  OF  UJ^EEST 

And  I  belong  to  the  de  Vasselots — I.  Whenever  I 
have  got  into  trouble  it  has  been  on  that  side." 

He  looked  round  to  make  sure  that  none  could 
overhear. 

"  It  was  I  who  shot  that  Italian  dog,  Pietro  An- 
drei," he  mentioned  in  confidence,  "  on  the  road 
below  Olmeta — but  that  was  a  personal  matter." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Lory,  who  had  heard  the  story  of 
Andrei's  death  on  the  market-place  at  Olmeta,  and 
the  stern  determination  of  his  widow  to  avenge  it. 

"  Yes — I  was  starving,  and  Andrei  had  money  on 
him.  In  the  old  days  it  was  easy  enough  to  get 
food  in  the  macquis.  One  could  come  down  into 
the  villages  at  night.  But  now  it  is  different.  It 
is  a  hard  life  there  now,  and  one  may  easily  die  of 
starvation.  There  are  many  who,  like  Pietro  An- 
drei, are  friendly  with  the  gendarmes."  * 

He  finished  with  a  gesture  of  supreme  disgust,  as 
if  friendship  with  a  gendarme  were  the  basest  of 
crimes. 

"  When  did  you  see  the  Abbe  Susini  ?  "  asked 
Lory,  "  and  where — if  you  can  tell  me  that  ?  " 

"  I  saw  him  in  the  macquis.  He  often  goes  up 
into  the  mountains  alone,  dressed  like  one  of  us. 
He  is  a  queer  man,  that  abbe.  He  says  that  he 
sometimes  thinks  it  well  to  care  for  the  wanderers 
from  his  flock — a  jest,  you  see." 

And  the  man  gave  his  crooked  grin  again. 

"  It  was  above  Asco,  in  the  high  mountains  near 
Cinto,"  he  continued,  "  and  about  a  week  ago.  It 
was  he  Avho  gave  me  money,  and  told  me  to  come 


FOR  FRANCE  223 

and  fight  for  France.  He  was  arranging  for  others 
to  do  the  same." 

"  The  abbe  is  a  practical  man,"  said  Lory. 

"  Yes — and  he  told  me  news  of  Olmeta,"  said  the 
man,  glancing  sideways  at  his  companion. 

"  What  news  ?  " 

"  You  have  no  doubt  heard  it — of  Vasselot." 

"  I  have  heard  nothing,  my  friend,  but  cannon. 
I  am  from  Sedan  to-day." 

The  man  seemed  to  hesitate.  He  turned  uneasily 
in  his  chair,  glancing  this  way  and  that  among  the 
trees — a  habit  acquired  in.  the  macquis,  no  doubt. 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  passed  his  hand  pensively 
over  his  hair.     Then  he  turned  to  Lory, 

"  There  is  no  longer  a  Chateau  de  A^asselot — it  is 
gone — burnt  to  the  ground,  mon  brave  monsieur." 

"  Who  burnt  it  ?  "  asked  de  Vasselot. 

"  Who  knows  ?"  replied  the  man.  "  The  Peruc- 
cas,  no  doubt.  They  have  a  woman  to  lead  them 
now  ! " 

The  man  finished  with  a  short  laugh,  which  was 
unpleasant  to  the  ear. 

Lory  thought  of  the  woman  who  was  leading  the 
Peruccas  now,  who  had  quitted  the  chair  in  which 
her  accuser  now  sat,  a  few  minutes  earlier,  and 
smiled. 

"Have  you  a  cigarette?"  asked  the  Corsican, 
bluntly. 

'"■  Yes — but  I  cannot  offer  it  to  you.  It  is  in  ray 
right-hand  pocket,  and  my  right  arm  is  disabled." 

"  An  arm  and  a  log,  eh  ?  "  said  the  man,  seeking 


224  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

in  the  pocket  indicated  by  Lory,  for  the  neat  silver 
cigarette-case,  which  he  handled  with  a  sort  of  grand 
air — this  gentleman  of  the  mountain-side.  "  You 
will  smoke  also  ?  " 

And  with  his  own  brown  fingers  he  was  kind 
enough  to  place  a  cigarette  between  de  Yasselot's 
lips.  The  tobacco-smoke  seemed  to  make  him  feel 
still  more  at  home  with  the  head  of  his  clan.  For 
he  sat  down  again  and  began  the  conversation  in 
quite  a  familiar  way. 

"Who  is  this  Colonel  Gilbert  of  Bastia,  who 
mixes  himself  up  in  affairs  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  What  affairs,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  affairs  of  others,  it  would  appear. 
We  hear  strange  stories  in  the  macquis — and  things 
that  one  would  never  expect  to  reach  the  moun- 
tains. They  say  that  Colonel  Gilbert  busies  him- 
self in  stirring  up  the  Peruccas  and  the  de  Vasse- 
lots  against  each  other — an  affair  that  has  slept 
these  thirty  years." 

"Ah!" 

"  Yes,  and  you  should  know  it,  you  who  are  the 
chief  of  the  de  Yasselots,  and  have  this  woman  to 
deal  with ;  the  women  are  always  the  worst.  The 
chateau,  they  saj^,  was  burnt  down,  and  the  women 
disappeared  from  the  Casa  Perucca  in  the  same 
week.  The  Casa  Perucca  is  empt}"  now,  and  the 
Chateau  de  Yasselot  is  gone— at  Olmeta  they  are 
bored  enough,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  They  have  nothing  to  quarrel  about,"  suggested 
Lory. 


FOR  FRANCE  225 

"  Nothing,"  replied  the  Corsican,  quite  gravely. 

"And  the  chateau  was  empty  when  they  burnt 
it  ?  "  inquired  Lory. 

"  Yes ;  it  has  been  empty  since  I  was  a  boy.  I 
remember  it  when  I  went  to  St.  Florent  to  school, 
and  it  was  then  that  I  used  to  see  your  father,  the 
count.  He  was  powerful  in  those  days — before  the 
Peruccas  began  to  get  strong.  But  they  overrun 
that  country  now,  which  is  no  doubt  the  reason 
why  you  have  never  been  there." 

"  Pardon  me — I  was  there  when  the  war  broke 
out  two  months  ago." 

"  Ah  !  We  never  heard  that  in  the  macquis, 
though  the  Abbe  Susini  must  have  known  it.  He 
knows  so  much  that  he  does  not  tell — that  abbe." 

"Which  makes  him  the  strong  man  he  is,  mon 


ami." 


"You  are  right — you  are  right,"  said  the  Cor- 
sican, rising  energetically.  "But  I  am  wasting 
your  time  with  my  talk,  and  tiring  you  as  well,  no 
doubt." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  replied  Lory,  touching  the  bell 
that  stood  on  a  table  by  his  side.  "  I  will  give  you 
a  letter  to  a  friend  of  mine,  commanding  a  regi- 
ment in  Paris." 

The  servant  brought  the  necessary  materials,  and 
Lory  prepared  awkwardly  to  write.  His  arm  was 
still  weak,  but  he  could  use  his  hand  without  pain. 
While  he  was  writing,  the  man  sat  watching  him, 
and  at  last  muttered  an  exclamation  of  wonder- 
ment. 


226  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  It  is  a  marvel  how  you  resemble  the  count,"  he 
said,  "  as  I  remember  him  thirty  years  ago,  when  I 
was  a  bo}^.  And  do  you  know,  monsieur,  I  saw  an 
old  man  the  other  day  for  a  moment,  in  passing  on 
the  road,  above  Asco,  who  brought  my  heart  into 
my  throat.  If  he  had  not  been  dead  this  score  of 
years  it  might  have  been  your  father — not  as  I  re- 
member him,  but  as  the  years  would  have  made 
him.  I  was  hidden  in  the  trees  at  the  side  of  the 
road,  and  he  passed  by  on  foot.  He  had  the  air  of 
going  into  the  macquis.  But  I  do  not  know  who 
he  was." 

"  When  was  that  ?  "  asked  de  Vasselot,  pausing 
with  his  pen  on  the  paper. 

"  That  must  have  been  a  month  ago." 

"  And  you  never  saw  or  heard  of  him  again  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  man. 

Lory  continued  to  write,  his  arm  moving  labori- 
ously on  the  paper. 

"  I  must  have  a  name — of  some  sort,"  he  said, 
"to  give  my  friend,  the  commandant." 

"  Ah  !  I  cannot  give  you  my  own.  Jean  Florent 
— since  I  came  from  St.  Florent — that  will  do." 

De  Vasselot  wrote  the  name,  folded  and  ad- 
dressed the  letter. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  and  I  wish  you  good  luck. 
Good  luck  in  war-time  may  mean  gold  lace  on  your 
sleeve  in  a  few  months.  I  shall  join  you  as  soon  as 
I  can  throw  my  leg  across  a  horse.  Will  two  hun- 
dred francs  serve  you  to  reach  Paris  ?  " 

"  Give  me  one  hundred.     I  am  no  beggar." 


FOR  FRANCE  227 

He  took  the  letter  and  the  bank  note,  shook 
hands,  and  went  away  as  abruptly  as  he  came. 
The  man  was  a  murderer,  with  probably  more  than 
one  life  to  account  for ;  and  yet  he  carried  his 
crimes  with  a  certain  dignity,  and  had,  at  all  events, 
that  grand  manner  which  comes  from  the  habit  of 
facing  life  fearlessly  with  the  odds  against. 

Lory  sat  up  and  watched  him.     He  rang  the  bell. 

"  See  that  man  off  the  premises,"  he  said  to  the 
servant,  "  and  then  beg  Mademoiselle  Lange  to  be 
good  enough  to  return  here." 

Denise  kept  him  waiting  a  long  time,  and  then 
came  with  reluctant  steps.  The  mention  of  Corsica 
seemed  to  have  changed  her  humour.  She  sat  down, 
nevertheless,  in  the  chair,  placed  there  by  Fate. 

"  You  sent  for  me,"  she  said,  rather  curtly. 

"  Because  I  could  not  come  myself,"  he  answered. 
"  I  did  not  want  you  to  see  that  man.  Or  rather,  I 
did  not  want  him  to  see  you.  He  is  not  one  of 
your  people — quite  the  contrary." 

And  de  Vasselot  laughed  with  significance. 

"  One  of  yours  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  So  it  appears,  though  I  was  not  aware  of  the 
honour.     He  described  you  as  'that  woman.'  " 

Denise  laughed  lightly,  and  threw  back  her  head. 

"  He  may  describe  me  as  he  likes.  Did  he  bring 
you  news  ?  " 

And  Denise  turned  away  as  she  spoke,  with  that 
air  of  indifference  which  so  often  covers  a  keen  de- 
sire for  information,  if  it  is  a  woman  who  seeks  it. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Lory,  turning,  as  she  turned,  to 


228  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

look  at  her.  He  looked  at  her  \A^henever  an  oppor- 
tunity offered.  The  cheek  half  turned  from  him 
was  a  little  sunburnt,  the  colour  of  a  peach  that  has 
ripened  in  the  open  under  a  Southern  sun,  for 
Denise  loved  the  air.  Perhaps  he  had  only  spoken 
the  truth  when  he  said  that  her  absence  made  him 
tired.  There  are  many  in  the  world  w^ho  have  to 
fight  against  that  weariness  all  their  lives.  At  last, 
as  if  with  an  effort,  Denise  turned,  and  met  his 
glance  for  a  moment. 

"  Bad  news,"  she  said ;  "  I  can  see  that." 

"  Yes.     It  is  bad  enough." 

"  Of  your  estates  ?  "  inquired  Denise. 

"  No.  I  never  cared  for  the  estate ;  I  do  not  care 
for  it  now." 

"  Then  it  is  of    .     .     .     some  one  ?" 

Lory  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  Corsica,"  he  said  at 
length,  "  as  soon  as  I  can  move — in  a  few  days." 

Denise  glanced  at  him  with  angry  eyes. 

"  I  was  told  that  story,"  she  said,  "  but  did  not 
believe  it." 

De  Yasselot  turned  and  looked  at  her,  but  could 
not  see  her  averted  face.  His  eyes  were  suddenly 
fierce.  He  was  a  fighter — of  a  fighting  stock — and 
he  instantly  perceived  that  he  was  called  upon  at 
this  moment  to  fight  for  the  happiness  of  his  whole 
life.  He  put  out  his  hand  and  deliberately  took 
hold  of  the  skirt  of  her  dress.  She  should  not  run 
away  at  all  events.  He  twisted  the  soft  material 
round  his  half-disabled  fingers. 


FOK  FRANCE  229 

"  What  stoiy  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

Denise's  eyes  Hashed,  and  then  suddenly  grew 
gentle.  She  did  not  quite  know  whether  she  was 
furious  or  afraid. 

"That  there  was  some  one  in  the  Chateau  de 
Vasselot  to  whom — whom  you  loved." 

"  It  is  you  that  I  love,  mademoiselle,"  he  an- 
swered sharply,  with  a  ring  in  his  voice,  which 
came  as  a  surprise  to  both  of  them,  and  which  she 
never  forgot  all  her  life.  "  No.  Do  not  go.  You 
are  pulling  on  my  injured  arm  and  I  shall  not  let 
go." 

Denise  sat  still,  silent  and  at  bay. 

"  Then  who  was  in  the  chateau  ?  "  she  asked  at 
last. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  If  it  is  as  you  say — about  me — and —  I  ask 
you  not  to  go  to  Corsica  ?  " 

"  I  must  go." 

"  "Why  ? "  asked  Denise,  with  a  dangerous  quiet 
in  her  voice. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Then  you  expect  a  great  deal." 

De  Vasselot  slowly  untwined  his  fingers  and 
drew  in  his  arm. 

"  True,"  he  said  reflectively.  "  I  must  ask  noth- 
ing or  too  much.  I  asked  more  than  you  can  give, 
mademoiselle." 

A  faint  smile  flickered  across  Denise's  eyes. 
Who  was  he,  to  say  how  much  a  woman  can  give  ? 
She  was  free  to  go  now,  but  did  not  move. 


230  THE  ISLE  OF  UKREST 

"With  Corsica  and — "  she  paused  and  glanced 
at  his  helpless  attitude  in  the  long  chair, — "  and  the 
war,  your  life  is  surely  sufficiently  occupied  as  it 
is,"  she  said  coldly. 

"  But  these  evil  times  will  pass.  The  war  will 
cease,  and  then  one  may  think  of  being  happy.  So 
long  as  there  is  war,  I  must  of  course  fight — fight — 
fight,  while  there  is  a  France  to  fight  for." 

Denise  laughed. 

"  That  is  your  scheme  of  life  ?  "  she  asked  bit- 
terly. 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle." 

She  rose  and  turned  angrily  away. 

"  Then  it  is  France  you  care  for — if  it  is  no  one 
in  Corsica.  France — nothing  and  nobody — but 
France." 

And  she  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN   THE   MACQUIS 
"  Before  man  made  us  citizens,  great  Nature  made  us  men. 

The  Abbe  Susini  had  no  money,  but  he  was  a 
charitable  man  in  a  hasty  and  impulsive  way. 
Even  the  very  poor  may  be  charitable :  they  can 
think  kindly  of  the  rich.  It  was  not  the  rich  of 
whom  the  abbe  had  a  friendly  thought,  but  the 
foolish  and  the  stubborn.  For  this  fiery  little 
priest  knew  more  of  the  unwritten  history  of  the 
macquis  than  any  in  Corsica — infinitely  more  than 
those  whose  business  it  was. 

It  is  the  custom  at  Ajaccio,  and  in  a  smaller  way 
at  Bastia,  to  ignore  the  darker  side  of  Corsican 
politics,  and  the  French  officials  are  content  with 
the  endeavour  to  get  through  their  term  of  office 
with  a  whole  skin.  It  is  not,  as  in  other  islands  of 
the  Mediterranean,  the  gospel  of  "  maiiana  "  which 
holds  good  here,  but  rather  the  gospel  of  "  So  I 
found  it — it  will  last  my  time."  So,  from  the  pre- 
fet  to  the  humblest  gendarme,  they  come,  they 
serve,  and  they  go  back  rejoicing  to  France.  They 
strike  when  absolutely  forced  to  do  so,  but  they 
commit  the  most  fatal  of  all  administrative  errors 
— they  strike  gently. 

The    faults   are  not  all   on   one   side ;   for  the 

231 


232  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

islanders  are  at  once  turbulent  and  sullen.  There 
are  many  who  "  keep  the  country,"  as  the  local 
saying  is,  and  wander  year  after  year  in  the  moun- 
tain fastnesses,  far  above  road  or  pathway,  beyond 
the  feeble  reach  of  the  law,  rather  than  pay  a 
trifling  fine  or  bend  their  pride  to  face  a  week's  im- 
prisonment. 

In  the  macquis,  as  in  better  society,  there  are 
grades  of  evil.  Some  are  hiding  from  their  own 
pride,  others  are  evading  a  lifelong  sentence,  while 
many  know  that  if  the  gendarme  sees  them  he  will 
shoot  at  sight — running,  standing,  sleeping,  as  a 
keeper  kills  vermin.  Only  a  few  months  ago,  on  a 
road  over  which  many  tourists  must  have  trav- 
elled, a  young  man  of  twenty-three  was  "  de- 
stroyed "  (the  official  term)  by  the  gendarmes  who 
wanted  him  for  eleven  murders.  It  is  commonly 
asserted  that  these  bandits  are  not  dangerous,  that 
they  have  no  grievance  against  travellers.  A  starv- 
ing man  has  a  grievance  against  the  whole  world, 
and  a  condemned  fratricide  is  not  likely  to  pick  and 
choose  his  next  victim  if  tempted  by  a  little  money 
and  the  chance  of  escape  therewith  from  the 
island. 

It  is,  moreover,  usual  for  a  man  to  take  to  the 
macquis  the  moment  that  he  finds  himself  involved 
in  some  trouble,  or,  it  may  be,  merely  under  suspi- 
cion. From  his  retreat  in  the  mountains  he  enters 
into  negotiations  Avith  his  lawj'^er,  with  the  local 
magistrate,  with  his  witnesses,  even  with  the  po- 
lice.    He   distrusts   justice   itself,    and   only   gives 


IN  THE  MACQUIS  233 

himself  up  or  faces  the  tribunal  when  he  has  made 
sure  of  acquittal  or  such  a  sentence  as  his  pride 
may  swallow.  Which  details  of  justice  as  under- 
stood in  a  province  of  France  at  the  beginning  of 
the  century  may  be  read  at  the  Assize  terms  in 
those  great  newspapers,  Le  Petit  Bastiais  or  Le 
Paoli  Pascal,  by  any  who  have  a  halfpenny  to 
spend  on  literature. 

It  would  appear  easy  enough  to  exterminate  the 
bandits  as  one  would  exterminate  wolves  or  other 
large  game ;  but  in  such  a  country  as  Corsica,  al- 
most devoid  of  roads,  thinly  populated,  heavily 
wooded,  the  expense  would  be  greater  than  the 
administration  is  prepared  to  incur.  It  would 
mean  putting  an  army  into  the  field,  prepared  and 
equipped  for  a  long  campaign  which  might  ulti- 
mately reach  the  dignity  of  a  civil  war.  The  ban- 
dits are  not  worth  it.  The  whole  country  is  not 
worth  exploiting.  Corsica  is  a  small  open  wound 
on  the  great  back  of  France,  carefully  concealed 
and  only  tended  spasmodically  from  time  to  time 
at  such  periods  as  the  health  of  the  whole  frame  is 
sufficiently  good  to  permit  of  serious  attention  be- 
ing given  to  so  small  a  sore.  And  such  times,  as 
the  wondering  world  knows,  are  few  and  far  be- 
tween in  the  history  of  France. 

The  law-abiding  natives,  or  such  natives  as  the 
law  has  not  found  out,  regard  the  denizens  of  the 
macquis  with  a  tender  pity  not  unmixed  with  re- 
spect. As  often  as  not  the  bandit  is  a  man  with 
a   real   grievance,  and  the  poor  have  a  soft  place 


234  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

in  their  hearts  for  a  man  with  a  grievance.  And 
all  Corsicans  are  poor.  So  all  are  for  the  bandits, 
and  every  man's  hand  is  secretly  or  openly  against 
the  gendarme.  Even  in  eumit}^,  there  is  a  certain 
sense  of  honour  among  these  naive  people.  A 
man  will  shoot  his  foe  in  the  back,  but  he  will 
not  betray  him  to  the  gendarme.  Among  a  primi- 
tive people  a  man  commands  respect  who  has  had 
the  courage  to  take  the  law  into  his  own  hands. 
Amidst  a  subject  population,  he  who  rebels  is  not 
without  honour. 

It  was  among  these  and  such  as  these  that  the 
Abbe  Susini  sought  from  time  to  time  his  lost 
sheep.  He  took  a  certain  pleasure  in  donning  the 
peasant  clothes  that  his  father  had  worn,  and  in 
going  to  the  mountains  as  his  forefathers  had 
doubtless  done  before  him.  For  every  man 
worthy  of  the  name  has  lurking  in  his  being  a 
remnant  of  the  barbarian  which  makes  him  revolt 
occasionally  against  the  life  of  the  city  and  the 
crowded  struggle  of  the  streets,  which  sends  him 
out  to  the  waste  places  of  the  world  where  God's 
air  is  at  all  events  untainted,  where  he  may  return 
to  the  primitive  way  of  living,  to  kill  and  gather 
with  his  own  hands  that  which  must  satisfy  his 
own  hunger. 

The  abbe  had  never  known  a  very  highly  refined 
state  of  civilisation.  The  barbarian  was  not  buried 
very  deep.  To  him  the  voice  of  the  wind  through 
the  trees,  the  roar  of  the  river,  the  fine,  free  air  of 
the  mountains  had  a  charm  which  he  could  not  put 


IN  THE  MACQUIS  235 

into  words.  He  hungered  for  them  as  the  exile 
hungers  for  the  sight  of  his  own  home.  The  air  of 
houses  choked  him,  as  sooner  or  later  it  seems  to 
choke  sailors  and  wanderers  who  have  known  what 
it  is  to  be  in  the  open  all  night,  sleeping  or  waking 
beneath  the  stars,  not  by  accident  as  an  adventure, 
but  by  habit.  Then  the  abbe  would  disappear  for 
days  together  from  Olmeta,  and  vanish  into  that 
mystic,  silent,  prowling  world  of  the  macquis.  The 
sights  he  saw  there,  the  men  he  met  there,  were 
among  those  things  which  the  villagers  said  the 
abbe  knew,  but  of  which  he  never  spoke. 

During  the  stirring  events  of  August  and  Sep- 
tember the  priest  at  Olmeta,  and  Colonel  Gilbert  at 
Bastia,  watched  each,  in  his  individual  way,  the  ef- 
fect of  the  news  upon  a  very  sensitive  populace. 
The  abbe  stood  on  the  highroad  one  night  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  Perucca,  and,  looking  down  into  the 
great  valley,  watched  the  flickering  flames  consume 
all  that  remained  of  the  old  Chateau  de  Vasselot. 
Colonel  Gilbert,  in  his  little  rooms  in  the  bastion  at 
Bastia,  knew  almost  as  soon  that  the  chateau  was 
burning,  and  only  evinced  his  usual  easj^-going  sur- 
prise. The  colonel  always  seemed  to  be  wondering 
that  any  should  have  the  energy  to  do  active  wrong ; 
for  virtue  is  more  often  passive,  and  therefore  less 
trouble. 

The  abbe  was  puzzled. 

"  An  empty  house,"  he  muttered,  "  does  not  set 
itself  on  fire.     Who  has  done  this  ?  and  why  ?  " 

For  he  knew  every  drift  and  current  of  feeling 


236  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

amid  his  turbulent  flock,  and  the  burning  of  the 
chateau  of  Yasselot  seemed  to  serve  no  purpose,  and 
to  satisfy  no  revenge.  There  was  some  influence 
at  work  which  the  Abbe  Susini  did  not  understand. 

He  understood  well  enough  that  a  hundred  griev- 
ances— a  hundred  unsatisfied  vengeances — had  sud- 
denly been  awakened  by  the  events  of  the  last 
months.  The  grip  of  France  was  for  a  moment  re- 
laxed, and  all  Corsica  arose  from  its  sullen  sleep, 
not  in  organised  revolt,  but  in  the  desire  to  satisfy 
personal  quarrels — to  break  in  one  way  or  another 
the  law  which  had  made  itself  so  dreaded.  The 
burning  of  the  Chateau  de  Yasselot  might  be  the 
result  of  some  such  feeling ;  but  the  abbe  thought 
otherwise. 

He  went  to  Perucca,  where  all  seemed  quiet, 
though  he  did  not  actually  ring  the  great  bell  and 
speak  to  the  widow  Andrei. 

A  few  hours  later,  after  nightfall,  he  set  off  on 
foot  by  the  road  that  leads  to  the  Lancone  Defile. 
But  he  did  not  turn  to  the  left  at  the  cross-roads. 
He  went  straight  on  instead,  by  the  track  which 
ultimately  leads  to  Corte,  in  the  middle  of  the  is- 
land, and  amidst  the  high  mountains.  This  is  one 
of  the  loneliest  spots"  in  all  the  lonely  island,  where 
men  ma}^  wander  for  days  and  never  see  a  human 
being.  The  macquis  is  thin  here,  and  not  consid- 
ered a  desirable  residence.  In  fact,  the  mildest 
malefactor  may  have  a  Avhole  mountain  to  himself 
Avithout  any  demonstration  of  violence  whatever. 

This  was  not   the  abbe's  destination.     He  was 


IN  THE  MACQUIS  237 

going  farther,  where  the  ordinary  traveller  would 
fare  worse,  and  hurried  along  without  looldng  to 
the  left  or  right.  A  half-moon  was  peeping  through 
an  occasional  rift  in  those  heavy  clouds  which  pre- 
cede the  autumn  rains  in  these  latitudes,  and  gather 
with  such  astonishing  slowness  and  deliberation.  It 
was  not  a  dark  night,  and  the  air  was  still.  The 
abbe  had  mounted  considerably  since  leaving  the 
cross-roads.  His  path  now  entered  a  valley  between 
two  mountains.  On  either  side  rose  a  sharp  slope, 
broken,  and  rendered  somewhat  inaccessible  by 
boulders,  which  had  at  one  tune  been  spilled  down 
the  mountain-side  by  some  great  upheaval,  and  now 
seemed  poised  in  patient  expectance  of  the  next  dis- 
turbance. 

Suddenly  the  priest  stopped,  and  stood  rooted.  A 
faint  sound,  inaudible  to  a  townsman's  ear,  made 
him  turn  sharply  to  the  right,  and  face  the  broken 
ground.  A  stone  no  bigger  than  a  hazel  nut  had 
been  dislodged  somewhere  above  him,  and  now  rolled 
down  to  his  feet.  The  dead  silence  of  the  mountains 
closed  over  him  again.  There  was,  of  course,  no 
one  in  sight. 

"  It  is  Susini  of  Olmeta,"  he  said,  speaking  quietly, 
as  if  he  were  in  a  room. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  a  man  rose 
from  behind  a  rock,  and  came  silently  on  bare  feet 
down  to  the  pathway.  His  approach  was  heralded 
by  a  scent  which  would  have  roused  any  sporting 
dog  to  frenzy.  This  man  was  within  measurable 
distance  of  the  beasts  of  the  forests.     As  he  came 


238  ,      THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

into  the  moonlight  it  was  perceivable  that  he  was 
hatless,  and  that  his  tangled  hair  and  beard  were 
streaked  with  white.  His  face  was  apparently  black, 
and  so  were  his  hands.  He  had  obviously  not 
washed  himself  for  years. 

"  You  here,"  said  the  abbe,  recognising  one  who 
had  for  years  and  years  been  spoken  of  as  a  sort  of 
phantom,  living  in  the  summits — the  life  of  an  ani- 
mal— alone. 

The  other  nodded. 

"  Then  you  have  heard  that  the  gendarmes  are 
being  drafted  into  the  army,  and  sent  to  France  ?  " 

The  man  nodded  again.  He  had  done  so  long 
without  speech  that  he  had  no  doubt  come  to  rec- 
ognise its  uselessness  in  the  majority  of  human  hap- 
penings. The  abbe  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  gave  the 
man  a  packet  of  tobacco.  The  Corsicans,  unlike 
nearly  all  other  races  of  the  Mediterranean,  are 
smokers  of  wooden  pipes. 

"  Thanks,"  said  the  man,  in  an  odd,  soft  voice, 
speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  am  going  up  into  the  mountains,"  said  the 
abbe,  slowly,  knowing  no  doubt  that  men  who  have 
lived  long  with  Nature  are  slow  to  understand 
words,  "  to  seek  an  old  man  who  has  recently  gone 
there.  He  is  travelling  with  a  man  called  Jean, 
who  has  the  evil  eye." 

"  The  Count  de  Yasselot,"  said  the  outlaw, 
quietly.  He  touched  his  forehead  with  one  finger 
and  made  a  vague  wandering  gesture  of  the  hand. 
"  I  have  seen  him.     You  go  the  wrong  way.     He  is 


IN  THE  MACQUIS  239 

down  there,  near  the  entrance  to  the  Lancone  Defile 
with  others." 

He  paused  and  looked  round  him  with  the  slow 
and  distant  glance  which  any  may  perceive  in  the 
eyes  of  a  caged  wild  beast. 

"  They  are  all  down  from  the  mountains,"  he  said. 

Even  the  Abbe  Susini  glanced  uneasily  over  his 
shoulder.  These  still,  stony  valleys  were  peopled 
by  the  noiseless,  predatory  Ishmaels  of  the  mac- 
quis.  They  were,  it  is  true,  not  numerous  at  this 
time,  but  those  who  had  escaped  the  clutch  of  the 
imperial  law  were  necessarily  the  most  cunning  and 
desperate. 

"  Buon,"  he  said,  turning  to  retrace  his  steps. 
"  I  shall  go  down  to  the  Lancone  Defile.  God  be 
with  you,  my  friend." 

The  man  gave  a  queer  laugh.  He  evidently 
thought  that  the  abbe  expected  too  much. 

The  abbe  w^alked  until  midnight,  and  then  being 
tired  he  found  a  quiet  spot  between  two  great 
rocks,  and  lying  down  slept  there  until  morning. 
In  the  leather  saddle-bag  which  formed  his  pillow 
he  had  bread  and  some  meat,  which  he  ate  as  he 
walked  on  toward  the  Lancone  Defile.  Once,  soon 
after  daylight,  he  paused  to  listen,  and  the  sound 
that  had  faintly  reached  him  was  repeated.  It  was 
the  warning  whistle  of  the  steamer,  the  old  Perse- 
verance, entering  Bastia  harbour  ten  miles  away. 
He  was  still  in  the  shade  of  the  great  heights  that 
lay  between  him  and  the  Eastern  coast,  and  hurried 
while  the  day  was  cool.     Then  the  sun  leapt  up 


240  THE  ISLE  OE  UJNilEST 

behind  the  hazy  summits  above  Biguglia.  The 
abbe  looked  at  his  huge  silver  watch.  It  was 
nearly  eight  o'clock.  When  he  was  near  to  the 
entrance  of  the  defile  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  and  gave,  in  his  high  clear  voice,  the  cry  of 
the  goat-herd  calling  his  flock.  He  gave  it  twice, 
and  then  repeated  it.  If  there  were  any  in  the 
macquis  within  a  mile  of  him  they  could  not  fail  to 
see  him  as  he  stood  on  the  dusty  road  in  the  sun- 
light. 

He  was  not  disappointed.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
closely-set  arbutus  bushes  above  the  road  were 
pushed  aside  and  a  boy  came  out — an  evil-faced 
youth  with  a  loose  mouth. 

"  It  is  Jean  of  the  Evil  Eye  who  has  sent  me," 
he  said  glibly,  with  an  eye  on  the  abbe's  hands  in 
case  there  should  be  a  knife.  "  He  is  up  there  with 
a  broken  leg.     He  has  with  him  the  old  man." 

"  The  old  man  ? "  repeated  the  abbe,  interroga- 
tively. 

"  Yes,  he  who  is  foolish." 

"  Show  me  the  way,"  said  Susini.  "  You  need 
not  look  at  my  hands ;  I  have  nothing  in  them." 

They  climbed  the  steep  slope  that  overhung  the 
road,  forcing  their  way  through  the  thick  brush- 
wood, stumbling  over  the  chaos  of  stones.  Quite 
suddenly  they  came  upon  a  group  of  men  sitting- 
round  a  smoldering  lire  where  a  tin  coffee-pot  stood 
amid  the  ashes.  One  man  had  his  leg  roughly  tied 
up  in  sticks.  It  was  Jean  of  the  Evil  Eye,  who 
looked  hard  at  the  Abbe  Susini,  and  then  turning, 


IN  THE  MACQUIS  241 

indicated  "with  a  nod  the  Count  de  Vasselot  who 
sat  leaning  against  a  tree.  The  count  recognised 
Susini  and  nodded  vaguely.  His  face,  once  bleached 
by  long  confinement,  was  burnt  to  a  deep  red ;  his 
eyes  were  quite  irresponsible. 

"  He  is  worse,"  said  Jean,  without  lowering  his 
voice.  "  Sometimes  I  can  only  keep  him  here  by 
force.  He  thinks  the  whole  island  is  looking  for 
him — he  never  sleeps." 

Jean  was  interrupted  by  the  evil-faced  boy,  who 
had  risen,  and  was  peering  down  toward  the  gates 
of  the  defile. 

"  There  is  a  carriage  on  the  road,"  he  said. 

They  all  listened.  There  w^ere  three  other  men 
whom  the  abbe  knew  by  sight  and  reputation. 
One  by  one  they  rose  to  their  feet  and  slowly 
cocked  their  old-fashioned  single-barrelled  guns. 

"  It  is  the  carriage  from  Olmeta — must  be  going 
to  Perucca,"  reported  the  boy. 

And  at  the  word  Perucca,  the  count  scrambled 
to  his  feet,  only  to  be  dragged  back  by  Jean.  The 
old  man's  eyes  were  alight  with  fear  and  hatred. 
He  was  grasping  Jean's  gun.  The  abbe  rose  and 
peered  down  through  the  bushes.  Then  he  turned 
sharply  and  wrenched  Jean's  firearm  from  the 
count's  hands. 

"They  are  friends  of  mine,"  he  said.  " The  man 
who  shoots  will  be  shot  by  me." 

All  turned  and  looked  at  him.  They  knew  the 
abbe  and  the  gun.  And  while  they  looked,  Denise 
and  Mademoiselle  Brun  drove  past  in  safety. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AN   UNDERSTANDING 
"Keep  cool,  and  you  command  everybody." 

When  France  realised  that  Napoleon  III.  had 
fallen,  she  turned  and  rent  his  memory.  No  dog, 
it  appears,  may  have  his  day,  but  some  cur  must 
needs  yelp  at  his  heels.  Indeed  (and  this  applies 
to  literary  fame  as  to  emperors),  it  is  a  sure  sign 
that  a  man  is  climbing  high  if  the  little  dogs  bark 
below. 

And  the  little  dogs  and  the  curs  remembered 
now  the  many  slights  cast  upon  them.  France  had 
been  betrayed — was  ruined.  The  twenty  most 
j)rosperous  years  of  her  history  were  forgotten. 
There  was  a  rush  of  patriots  to  Paris,  and  another 
rush  of  the  chicken-hearted  to  the  coast  and  the 
frontier. 

The  Baron  de  Melide  telegraphed  to  the  baroness 
to  quit  Frejus  and  go  to  Italy.  And  the  baroness 
telegraphed  a  refusal  to  do  so. 

Lory  de  Vasselot  fretted  as  much  as  one  of  his 
buoyant  nature  could  fret  under  this  forced  inac- 
tivity. The  sunshine,  the  beautiful  surroundings, 
and  the  presence  of  friends,  made  him  forget  France 
at  times,  and  think  only  of  the  present.  And 
Denise  absorbed  his  thoughts  of  the  present  and 

242 


AN  UNDERSTANDING  243 

the  future.  She  was  a  constant  puzzle  to  him. 
There  seemed  to  be  two  Denise  Langes :  one  who 
was  gay  with  that  deep  note  of  wisdom  in  her 
gaiety,  which  only  French  women  compass,  with 
odd  touches  of  tenderness  and  little  traits  of  almost 
maternal  solicitude,  which  betrayed  themselves  at 
such  moments  as  the  wounded  man  attempted  to  do 
something  which  his  crippled  condition  or  his  weak- 
ness prevented  him  from  accomplishing.  The  other 
Denise  was  clear-eyed,  logical,  almost  cold,  who  re- 
sented any  mention  of  Corsica  or  of  the  war. 
Indeed,  de  Yasselot  had  seen  her  face  harden  at 
some  laughing  reference  made  by  him  to  his 
approaching  recovery.  He  was  quick  enough  to 
perceive  that  she  was  endeavouring  to  shut  out  of 
her  life  all  but  the  present,  which  was  unusual ; 
for  most  pin  their  faith  on  the  future  until  they  are 
quite  old,  and  their  future  must  necessarily  be  a 
phantom. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  one  day,  on  one  of  the  rare  occasions  when 
she  had  allowed  herself  to  be  left  alone  with  him. 
"  You  are  brave,  and  yet  you  are  a  coward  !  " 

And  the  resentment  in  her  eyes  took  him  by 
surprise.  He  did  not  know,  perhaps,  that  the 
wisest  men  never  see  more  than  they  are  intended 
to  see. 

"  Pray  do  not  try,"  she  answered.  "  The  effort 
might  delay  your  recovery  and  your  return  to  the 
army." 

She  laughed,  and  presently  left  him.    It  is  one 


244  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

thing  to  face  the  future,  and  another  to  sit  quietly 
awaiting  its  approach.  The  majority  of  people 
spoil  their  lives  by  going  out  to  meet  the  future, 
deliberately  converting  into  a  reality  that  which 
was  only  a  dread.     They  call  it  knowing  the  worst. 

The  next  morning  Mademoiselle  Brun,  with  a 
composed  face  and  blinking  eyes,  mentioned  casually 
to  Lory  that  she  and  Denise  were  going  back  to 
Corsica. 

"  But  why  ?  "  cried  Lory ;  "  but  why,  my  dear 
demoiselle  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Mademoiselle  Brun, 
smoothing  her  gloves.  "  It  will,  at  all  events,  show 
the  world  that  we  are  not  afraid." 

De  Yasselot  looked  at  her  non-committing  face 
and  held  his  peace.  There  was  more  in  this  than  a 
man's  philosophy  might  dream  of. 

"  When  do  you  go  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  pause. 

"  To-night,  from  Nice,"  was  the  answer. 

And,  as  has  been  noted,  Denise  and  mademoiselle 
arrived  at  Bastia  in  the  early  morning,  and  drove  to 
the  Casa  Perucca,  in  the  face  of  more  than  one  rifle- 
barrel.  Mademoiselle  Brun  never  asked  questions, 
and,  if  she  knew  why  Denise  had  returned  to  Per- 
ucca so  suddenly,  she  had  not  acquired  the  knowl- 
edge from  the  girl  herself,  but  had,  behind  her 
beady  eyes,  put  two  and  two  together  with  that 
accuracy  of  which  women  have  the  monopoly. 
She  meekly  set  to  work  to  make  the  Casa  Perucca 
comfortable,  and  took  up  her  horticultural  labours 
where  she  had  dropped  them. 


AN  UNDERSTANDING  245 

"  One  misses  the  Chateau  de  Vasselot,"  she  said 
one  morning,  standing  by  the  open  window  that 
gave  so  wide  a  view  of  the  valle}^. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Denise ;  and  that  was  all. 

Mademoiselle  went  into  the  garden  with  her 
leather  gloves  and  a  small  basket.  The  odd  thing 
about  her  gardening  was,  that  it  was  on  such  a 
minute  scale  that  the  result  was  never  visible  to 
the  ordinary  eye.  Denise  had,  it  appeared,  given 
up  gardening.  Mademoiselle  Brun  did  not  know 
how  she  occupied  herself  at  this  time.  She  seemed 
to  do  nothing,  and  preferred  to  do  it  alone.  Re- 
turning to  the  house  at  midday,  mademoiselle  went 
into  the  drawing-room,  and  there  found  Denise  and 
Colonel  Gilbert  seated  at  the  table  with  some  papers, 
and  a  map  spread  out  before  them. 

.  Both  looked  up  with  a  guilty  air,  and  Denise 
flushed  suddenly,  while  the  colonel  bit  his  lip. 
Immediately  he  recovered  himself,  and  rising, 
shook  hands  with  the  newcomer. 

"  I  heard  that  you  had  returned,"  he  said,  "  and 
hastened  to  pay  my  respects." 

"  We  were  looking  at  the  plans,"  added  Denise, 
hurriedly.  "  I  have  agreed  to  sell  Perucca  to  Colo- 
nel Gilbert — as  you  have  always  wished  me  to  do." 

"  Yes ;  I  have  always  wished  you  do  it,"  re- 
turned Mademoiselle  Brun,  slowly.  She  was  very 
cool  and  collected,  and  in  that  had  the  advantage 
over  her  companions.  "  Has  the  colonel  the  money 
in  his  pocket  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  dry  smile.  "  Is 
it  to  be  settled  this  afternoon  ?  " 


246  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

She  glanced  from  one  to  the  other.  If  love  is 
blind,  he  certainly  tampers  with  the  sight  of  those 
who  have  had  dealings  with  him.  Denise  was  only 
thinking  of  Perucca.  She  had  not  perceived  that 
Colonel  Gilbert  was  honestly  in  love  with  her.  But 
Mademoiselle  Brun  saw  it.  She  was  wondering — 
if  this  thing  had  come  to  Gilbert  twenty  years 
earlier — what  manner  of  man  it  might  have  made 
of  him.  It  was  a  good  love.  Mademoiselle  saw 
that  quite  clearly.  For  a  dishonest  man  may  at  any 
moment  be  tripped  up  by  an  honest  passion. 
Which  is  one  of  those  practical  jokes  of  Fate  that 
break  men's  hearts. 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  said  Colonel  Gil- 
bert, with  more  earnestness  than  he  had  ever 
shown,  "  that  the  sooner  you  and  mademoiselle  are 
out  of  the  island  the  better." 

"  Bah !  "  laughed  mademoiselle.  "  "With  you  at 
Bastia  to  watch  over  us,  mon  colonel !  Besides,  we 
Peruccas  are  invincible  just  now.  Have  we  not 
burnt  down  the  Chateau  de  Vasselot  ?  " 

Gilbert  winced.     Mademoiselle  wondered  why. 

"I  want  it  settled  as  soon  as  possible,"  put  in 
Denise,  turning  to  the  papers.  "  There  is  no  need 
of  delay." 

"  None,"  acquiesced  mademoiselle.  She  wanted 
to  sell  Perucca  and  be  done  with  it,  and  with  the 
island.  She  was  a  woman  of  iron  nerve,  but  the 
gloom  and  loneliness  of  Corsica  had  not  left  her  at 
ease.  There  was  a  haunting  air  of  disaster  that 
seemed  to  brood  over  the  whole  land,  with  its  miles 


AN  UNDERSTANDING  24Y 

and  miles  of  untenanted  mountains,  its  malarial 
plains,  and  deserted  sea-board.  "  None,"  she  re- 
peated. "  But  such  transactions  are  not  to  be 
carried  through,  in  a  woman's  drawing-room,  by 
two  women  and  a  soldier." 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  She  did  not 
know  why  one  wanted  to  buy  and  the  other  to  sell. 
She  only  knew  that  her  own  inclination  was  to 
give  them  every  assistance,  and  to  give  it  even 
against  her  better  judgment.  It  could  only  be, 
after  all,  the  question  of  a  little  more  or  a  little  less 
profit,  and  she,  who  had  never  had  any  money,  knew 
that  the  possession  of  it  never  makes  a  woman  one 
whit  the  happier. 

"  Then,"  said  the  colonel  with  his  easy  laugh — 
for  he  was  inimitable  in  the  graceful  art  of  yielding 
— "  Then,  let  us  appoint  a  day  to  sign  the  necessary 
agreements  in  the  office  of  the  notary  at  Bastia.  I 
tell  you  frankly  I  want  to  get  you  out  of  the 
island." 

The  colonel  stayed  to  lunch,  and,  whether  by 
accident  or  intention,  made  a  better  impression 
than  he  had  ever  made  before.  He  was  intelligent, 
easy,  full  of  information  and  o  rara  avis  !  proved 
himself  to  be  a  man  without  conceit.  He  never 
complained  of  his  ill-fortune  in  life,  but  his  individ- 
uality thrust  the  fact  into  every  mind,  that  this 
was  a  man  destined  for  distinction  who  had  missed 
it.  He  seemed  to  be  riding  through  life  for  a  fall, 
and  rode  with  his  chin  up,  gay  and  dehonnah'e. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  felt  relieved  by  the  thought 


248  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

that  the  end  of  Corsica,  and  this  impossible  Casa 
Perucca,  was  in  sight.  She  was  gay  as  the  little 
grey  mouse  may  be  gay  at  some  domestic  festival. 
She  sent  the  widow  to  the  cellar,  and  the  occasion 
was  duly  celebrated  in  a  bottle  of  Mattel  Perucca's 
old  wine. 

"With  coffee  came  the  question  of  fixing  a  date  for 
the  signature  of  the  deed  of  sale  at  the  notary's 
office  at  Bastia.  And  instantly  the  mouse  skipped, 
as  it  were,  into  a  retired  corner  of  the  conversation 
and  crouched  silent,  watching  with  bright  eyes. 

"  I  should  like  it  to  be  done  soon,"  said  the 
colonel,  who,  at  the  suggestion  of  his  hostess,  had 
lighted  a  cigarette.  He  seemed  more  himself  with 
a  cigarette  between  his  fingers  to  contemplate  with 
a  dreamy  eye,  to  turn  and  twist  in  reflective  idle- 
ness. "  You  will  understand  that  my  future  move- 
ments are  uncertain  if,  as  now  seems  possible,  the 
war  is  not  over." 

"  But  surely  it  is  over,"  put  in  Denise,  quickly. 

The  colonel  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  "Who  can  tell  ?  "We  are  in  the  hands  of  a  few 
journalists  and  lawyers,  mademoiselle.  If  the  men 
of  words  say  'Resist,'  we  others  are  ready.  I  have 
applied  to  be  relieved  of  my  command  here,  since 
they  are  going  to  fortify  Paris.  Shall  we  say  next 
week?" 

"  To-day  is  Thursday — shall  we  say  Monday  ?  " 
replied  Denise. 

"Make  it  "Wednesday,"  suggested  Mademoiselle 
Brun  from  her  silent  corner. 


AN  UNDERSTANDING  249 

And  after  some  discussion  Wednesday  was  finally 
selected.  Mademoiselle  Brun  had  no  particular 
reason  why  it  should  be  Wednesday,  in  preference 
to  Monday,  and,  unlike  most  people  in  such  circum- 
stances, advanced  none. 

"We  shall  require  witnesses,"  she  said  as  the 
colonel  took  his  leave.  "  I  shall  be  able  to  find  two 
to  testify  to  the  signature  of  Denise." 

The  colonel  had  apparently  forgotten  this  neces- 
sity.    He  thanked  her  and  departed. 

"  And  on  Wednesday,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  in  reality 
have  the  money  in  my  pocket." 

During  the  afternoon  mademoiselle  announced 
her  intention  of  walking  to  Olmeta.  It  would  be 
advisable  to  secure  the  Abbe  Susini  as  a  witness, 
she  said.  He  was  a  busy  man,  and  a  journey  to 
Bastia  Avould  of  necessity  take  up  his  whole  day. 
Denise  did  not  offer  to  accompany  her,  so  she  set 
out  alone  at  a  quick  pace,  learnt,  no  doubt,  in  the 
Rue  des  Saints  Peres. 

"  They  will  not  shoot  at  an  old  woman,"  she 
said,  and  never  looked  aside. 

The  priest's  housekeeper  received  her  coldly. 
Yes,  the  abbe  was  at  home,  she  said,  holding  the 
door  ajar  with  scant  hospitality.  Mademoiselle 
pushed  it  open  and  went  into  the  narrow  passage. 
She  had  too  much  respect  for  a  priest,  and  none 
whatever  for  a  priest's  housekeeper,  who  kept  a 
house  so  badly.  She  looked  at  the  dirty  floor,  and 
with  a  subtle  feminine  irony,  sought  the  mat 
which  was  lying  in  the  road  outside  the  house. 


250  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

She  folded  her  hands  at  her  waist,  and  still  grasp- 
ing her  cheap  cotton  umbrella,  waited  to  be  an- 
nounced. 

The  Abbe  Susini  received  her  in  his  little  bare 
study,  where  a  few  newspapers,  half  a  dozen  ancient 
volumes  of  theology  and  a  life  of  Napoleon  the 
Great,  represented  literature.  He  bowed  silently 
and  drew  forward  his  own  horsehair  armchair. 
Mademoiselle  Brun  sat  down,  and  crossed  her  hands 
upon  the  hilt  of  her  umbrella  like  a  soldier  at  rest 
under  arms.  She  waited  until  the  housekeeper  had 
closed  the  door  and  shuffled  away  to  her  own  quar- 
ters. Then  she  looked  the  resolute  little  abbe 
straight  in  the  eyes. 

"  Let  us  understand  each  other,"  she  said. 

"  Bon  Dieu !  upon  what  point,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

Mademoiselle  was  still  looking  at  him.  She  per- 
ceived that  there  were  some  points  upon  which  the 
priest  did  not  desire  to  be  understood.  She  held  up 
one  finger  in  its  neutral-coloured  cotton  glove,  and 
shook  it  slowly  from  side  to  side. 

"  None  of  your  theology,"  she  said  ;  "  I  come  to 
you  as  a  man — the  only  man  I  think  in  this  island 
at  present." 

"  At  present  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  other  is  in  France,  recovering  from  his 
wounds." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  abbe,  glancing  shrewdly  into  her 
face.  "  You  also  have  perceived  that  he  is  a  man 
— that.  But  there  is  our  good  Colonel  Gilbert. 
You  forget  him." 


AN  UNDEESTANDING  251 

"  He  ATould  have  made  a  good  priest,"  said  made- 
moiselle, bluntl}^,  and  the  abbe  laughed  aloud. 

"  Ah  !  but  you  amuse  me,  mademoiselle.  You 
amuse  me  enormously."  And  he  leant  back  to 
laugh  at  his  ease. 

"  Yes,  I  came  on  purpose  to  amuse  you.  I  came 
to  tell  you  that  Denise  Lange  has  sold  Perucca  to 
Colonel  Gilbert." 

"  Sacred  name  of — thunder,"  he  muttered,  the 
mirth  wiped  away  from  his  face  as  if  with  a  cloth. 
He  sat  bolt  upright,  glaring  at  her,  his  restless  foot 
tapping  on  the  floor. 

"  Ah,  you  women  !  "  he  ejaculated  after  a  pause. 

"  Ah,  you  priests !  "  returned  Mademoiselle  Brun, 
composedly. 

"  And  you  did  not  stop  it,"  he  said,  looking  at 
her  with  undisguised  contempt. 

"  I  have  no  control.  I  used  to  have  a  little ;  now 
I  have  none." 

She  finishe'd  with  a  gesture,  describing  the  action 
of  a  leaf  blown  before  the  wind. 

"  But  I  have  put  off  the  signing  of  the  papers 
until  "Wednesday,"  she  continued.  "  I  have  under- 
taken to  provide  two  witnesses,  yourself  if  you  will 
consent,  the  other — I  thought  we  might  get  the 
other  from  Frejus  between  now  and  Wednesday. 
A  boat  from  St.  Florent  to-night  could  surely,  with 
this  wind,  reach  St.  Kaphael  to-morrow." 

The  abbe  was  looking  at  her  with  manifest  ap- 
proval. 

"  Clever,"  he  said — "  clever." 


252  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

Mademoiselle  Brun  rose  to  go  as  abruptly  as  she 
had  come. 

"  Personally,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  rid 
of  Perucca  forever — but  I  fancied  there  are  rea- 
sons." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  priest,  slowly,  "  there  are  rea- 
sons." 

"  Oh  !  I  ask  no  questions,"  she  snapped  out  at 
him  with  her  hand  on  the  door.  On  the  threshold 
she  paused.  "  All  the  same,"  she  said,  "  I  do  ask  a 
question.  Why  does  Colonel  Gilbert  want  to 
buy  ?  " 

The  priest  threw  up  his  hands  in  angry  bewilder- 
ment. 

"  That  is  it ! "  he  cried.     "  I  wish  I  knew." 

"  Then  find  out,"  said  mademoiselle,  "  between 
now  and  "Wednesday." 

And  with  a  curt  nod  she  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"CE   QUE   FEMME   VEUT " 

"  All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee ! 
All  chance,  direction  which  thou  canst  not  see." 

It  rained  all  night  with  a  semi-tropical  enthusi- 
asm. The  autumn  rains  are  looked  for  in  these  lat- 
itudes at  certain  dates,  and  if  by  chance  they  fail, 
the  whole  winter  will  be  disturbed  and  broken. 
With  sunrise,  hoAvever,  the  clouds  broke  on  the 
western  side  of  the  island,  and  from  the  summit  of 
the  great  Perucca  rock  the  blue  and  distant  sea  was 
visible  through  the  grey  confusion  of  mist  and 
cloud.  The  autumn  had  been  a  dry  one,  so  the 
whole  mountain-side  was  clothed  in  shades  of  red 
and  brown,  rising  from  the  scarlet  of  the  black- 
berry leaves  to  the  deep  amber  of  the  bare  rock, 
Avhere  all  vegetation  ceased.  The  distant  peeps  of 
the  valley  of  Vasselot  glowed  blue  and  purple,  the 
sea  was  a  bright  cobalt,  and  through  the  broken 
clouds  the  sun  cast  shafts  of  yellow  gold  and  shim- 
mering silver.  The  whole  effect  was  dazzling,  and 
such  as  dim  Northern  eyes  can  scarce  imagine. 

Mademoiselle  Brun,  who  had  just  risen  from  the 
table  where  she  and  Denise  had  had  their  early 
breakfast  of  coffee  and  bread,  was  standing  by  the 

253 


254  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

window  that  opened  upon  the  verandah  where  old 
Mattel  Perucca  had  passed  so  many  hours  of  his 
life. 

"  One  should  build  on  this  spot,"  she  began,  "  a 
convalescent  home  for  atheists." 

She  broke  off,  and  staggered  back.  The  room, 
the  verandah,  the  whole  world  it  seemed,  was  shak- 
ing and  vibrating  like  a  rickety  steam-engine.  For 
a  moment  the  human  senses  were  paralysed  by  a 
deafening  roar  and  rattle.  Mademoiselle  Brun 
turned  to  Denise,  and  for  a  time  they  clung  to  each 
other ;  and  then  Denise,  whose  strong  young  arms 
half  lifted  her  companion  from  the  ground,  gained 
the  open  window.  She  held  there  for  a  moment, 
and  then  staggered  across  the  verandah  and  down 
the  steps,  dragging  mademoiselle  with  her. 

There  was  no  question  of  speech,  of  thought,  of 
understanding.  They  merely  stood,  holding  to 
each  other,  and  watching  the  house.  Then  a  sud- 
den silence  closed  over  the  world,  and  all  was  still. 
Denise  turned  and  looked  down  into  the  valley, 
smiling  beneath  them  in  its  brilliant  colouring. 
Her  hand  was  at  her  throat  as  if  she  were  choking. 
Mademoiselle,  shaking  in  every  limb,  turned  and 
sat  down  on  a  garden  seat.  Denise  would  not  sit, 
but  stood  shaking  and  swaying  like  a  reed  in  a  mis- 
tral. And  yet  each  in  her  way  was  as  brave  a 
woman  as  could  be  found  even  in  their  own  coun- 
try. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  leant  forward,  and  held  her 
head  between  her  two  hands,  while  she  stared  at 


"CE  QUE  FEMME  VEUT"  255 

the  ground  between  her  feet.  At  last  speech  came 
to  her,  but  not  her  natural  voice. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  passing  her  little  shrivelled 
hand  across  her  eyes,  "  that  it  was  an  earthquake." 

"  No,"  said  Denise.  ''  Look !  "  And  she  pointed 
with  a  shaking  finger  down  toward  the  river. 

A  great  piece  of  the  mountain-side,  comprising 
half  a  dozen  vine  terraces,  a  few  olive  terraces,  and 
a  patch  of  pinewood,  had  fallen  bodily  down  into 
the  river-bed,  leaving  the  slope  a  bare  and  scarified 
mass  of  rock  and  red  soil.  The  little  Guadelle 
river,  a  tributary  of  the  Aliso,  was  completely 
dammed.  Perucca  was  the  poorer  by  the  complete 
disappearance  of  one  of  its  sunniest  slopes,  but  the 
house  stood  unhurt. 

"No  more  will  fall,"  said  Denise  presently. 
"  See  ;  there  is  the  bare  rock." 

Mademoiselle  rose,  and  came  slowly  toward  Den- 
ise. They  were  recovering  from  their  terror  now. 
For  at  all  events,  the  cause  of  it  lay  before  them, 
and  lacked  the  dread  uncertainty  of  an  earthquake. 
Mademoiselle  gave  an  odd  laugh. 

"  It  is  the  boundary-line  betAveen  Perucca  and 
Yasselot,"  she  said,  "  that  has  fallen  into  the 
valley." 

Denise  was  thinking  the  same  thought,  and  made 
no  answer.  The  footpath  from  the  chateau  up  to 
tiie  Casa  by  which  Gilbert  had  come  on  the  day  of 
Mattel  Perucca's  death,  b}'-  which  he  had  also  rid- 
den to  the  chateau  one  day,  was  completely  obliter- 
ated.    Where  it  had  crept  along  the  face  of  the 


256  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

slope,  there  now  rose  a  bare  red  rock.  There  was 
no  longer  a  short  cut  from  the  one  house  to  the 
other.     It  made  Perucca  all  the  more  inaccessible. 

"  Curious,"  whispered  Mademoiselle  Brun  to  her- 
self, as  she  turned  toward  the  house.  She  went  in- 
doors to  get  a  hat,  for  the  autumn  sun  was  now 
glaring  down  upon  them. 

When  she  came  out  again,  Denise  was  sitting 
looking  thoughtfully  down  into  the  valley  where 
had  once  stood  the  old  chateau,  now  gone,  to  which 
had  led  this  pathway,  now  wiped  off  the  face  of 
the  earth. 

"  There  is  assuredly,"  she  said,  without  looking 
round,  "  a  curse  upon  this  country." 

Which  Seneca  had  thought  eighteen  hundred 
years  before,  and  which  the  history  of  the  islands 
steadily  confirms. 

Mademoiselle  was  drawing  on  her  gloves,  and 
carried  her  umbrella. 

"  I  am  going  down  the  pathway  to  look  at  it  all," 
she  said. 

There  was.  nothing  to  be  done.  When  ISTature 
takes  things  into  her  own  hands,  men  can  only 
stand  by  and  look.  Denise  was  perhaps  more 
shaken  than  the  smaller,  tougher  woman.  She 
made  no  attempt  to  accompany  mademoiselle,  but 
sat  in  the  shade  of  a  mimosa  tree,  and  watched  her 
descend  into  the  valley,  now  appearing,  now  hid- 
den, in  the  brushwood. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  made  her  way  to  the  spot 
where  the  pathway  was  suddenly  cut  short  by  the 


"CE  QUE  FEMME  VEUT"  257 

avalanche  of  rock  and  rubble  and  soil.  It  hap- 
pened to  be  the  exact  spot  where  Colonel  Gilbert's 
heavy  horse  had  stumbled  months  before,  where 
the  footpath  crossed  the  bed  of  a  small  mountain 
torrent.  A  few  loosened  stones  had  come  bowling 
down  the  slope,  set  free  by  the  landslip.  These 
had  fallen  onto  the  pathway,  and  there  shattered 
themselves  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Mademoiselle 
stood  among  the  debris.  She  looked  down  in  order 
to  make  sure  of  her  foothold,  and  something  caught 
her  eye.  She  knelt  down  eagerly,  and  then,  look- 
ing up,  glanced  round  surreptitiously  like  a  thief. 
She  could  not  see  the  Casa  Perucca.  She  was 
alone  on  this  solitary  mountain-side.  Slowly  she 
collected  the  debris  of  the  broken  rock,  which  was 
mixed  with  a  red  powdery  soil. 

"  Ciel !  "  she  whispered,  "  Ciel !  what  fools  we 
have  all  been  !  " 

She  rose  from  her  knees  with  one  clasped  hand- 
ful of  rubble.  Slowly  and  thoughtfully  she  climbed 
the  hill  again.  On  the  terrace,  where  she  arrived 
hot  and  tired,  the  widow  Andrei  met  her.  The 
woman  had  been  to  the  village  on  an  errand,  and 
had  returned  during  mademoiselle's  absence. 

"  The  Abbe  Susini  awaits  you  in  the  library," 
she  said.  "  He  asked  for  you  and  not  for  made- 
moiselle, who  has  gone  to  her  own  garden," 

Mademoiselle  hurried  into  the  librarv.  The  ar- 
rival  of  the  abbe  at  this  moment  seemed  provi- 
dential, though  the  explanation  of  it  was  simple 
enough. 


258  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  I  came/'  he  said,  looking  at  her  keenly,  "  on  a 
fool's  errand.  I  came  to  ask  whether  the  ladies 
were  afraid." 

Mademoiselle  gave  a  chilly  smile. 

"  The  ladies  were  not  afraid,  Monsieur  I'Abbe," 
she  said.     "  They  were  terrified — since  you  ask." 

She  went  to  a  side-table  and  brought  a  news- 
paper ;  for  even  in  her  excitement  she  was  scrupu- 
lously tidy.  She  laid  it  on  the  table  in  front  of  the 
abbe,  rather  awkwardl}'-  with  her  left  hand,  and 
then,  holding  her  right  over  the  newspaper,  she 
suddenly  opened  it,  and  let  fall  a  little  heap  of 
stones  and  soil.  Some  of  the  stones  had  a  singular 
rounded  appearance. 

The  abbe  treated  her  movements  with  the  kindly 
interest  offered  at  the  shrine  of  childhood  or  imbe- 
cility. It  Avas  evident  that  he  supposed  that  the 
landslip  had  unhinged  Mademoiselle  Brun's  reason. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  asked  soothingly,  contem- 
plating the  mineral  trophy. 

"  I  think,"  answered  mademoiselle,  "  that  it  is 
the  explanation." 

"  The  explanation  of  what,  if  one  may  inquire  ?" 

"  Of  your  precious  colonel,"  said  mademoiselle. 
"  That  is  gold.  Monsieur  I'Abbe.  I  have  seen  sim- 
ilar dirt  in  a  museum  in  Paris."  She  took  up  one 
of  the  pebbles.  "  Scrape  it  with  your  knife,"  she 
said,  handing  it  to  him. 

The  abbe  obeyed  her,  and  volunteered  on  his 
own  account  to  bite  it.  He  handed  it  back  to  her 
with  the  marks  of  his  teeth  on  it,  and  one  side  of 


"CE  QUE  FEMME  VEUT"  259 

it  scraped  clean  showing  pure  gold.  Then  he  walked 
pensively  to  the  window,  where  he  stood  with  his 
back  turned  to  her  in  deep  thought  for  some  min- 
utes. At  length  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  looked 
at  her. 

"  It  began,"  he  said,  holding  up  one  finger  and 
shaking  it  slowly  from  side  to  side,  which  seemed 
to  indicate  that  his  hearer  must  be  silent  for  a  while, 
"  long  ago.     I  see  it  now." 

"  Part  of  it,"  corrected  mademoiselle,  inexorably. 

"  He  must  have  discovered  it  two  years  ago  when 
he  first  surveyed  this  country  for  the  proposed  rail- 
w^ay.  I  see  now  why  that  man  from  St.  Florent 
shot  Pietro  Andrei  on  the  highroad.  Pietro  An- 
drei was  in  the  way,  and  a  little  subtle  revival  of  a 
forgotten  vendetta  secured  his  removal.  I  see  now 
whence  came  the  anonymous  letter  intended  to 
frighten  Mattel  Perucca  away  from  here.  It 
frightened  him  into  the  next  world." 

"And  I  see  now,"  interrupted  the  refractory 
listener,  "  w^hy  Denise  received  an  offer  for  the 
estate  before  she  had  become  possessed  of  it,  and 
an  offer  of  marriage  before  we  had  been  here  a 
month.  But  he  tripped  and  fell  then,"  she  con- 
cluded grimly. 

"  And  all  for  money,"  said  the  abbe,  contemptu- 
ously. 

"  Wait,"  said  mademoiselle — "  wait  till  you  have 
yourself  been  tempted.  So  many  fall.  It  must  be 
greater  than  we  think,  that  temptation.  You  and 
I  perhaps  have  never  had  it." 


260  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  No,"  replied  the  abbe,  simply.  "  There  has 
never  been  more  than  a  sou  in  my  poor-box  at  the 
church.  I  see  now,"  continued  Susini,  "  who  has 
been  stirring  up  this  old  strife  between  the  Per- 
uccas  and  the  Vasselots — offering,  as  he  was,  to 
buy  from  one  and  the  other  alternately.  This  di7't, 
mademoiselle,  must  lie  on  both  estates." 

"  It  lies  between  the  two." 

The  priest  was  deep  in  thought,  rubbing  his 
stubbly  chin  with  two  fingers. 

"  I  see  so  much  now,"  he  said  at  length,  "  which 
I  never  understood  before." 

He  turned  toward  the  window,  and  looked  down 
at  the  rocky  slope  with  a  new  interest. 

"  There  must  be  a  great  quantity  of  it,"  he  said 
reflectively.  "  He  has  walked  over  so  many  obsta- 
cles to  get  to  it,  with  his  pleasant  laugh." 

"  He  has  walked  over  his  own  heart,"  said  made- 
moiselle, persistently  contemplating  the  question 
from  the  woman's  point  of  view. 

The  priest  moved  impatiently. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  men's  lives,"  he  said.  Then 
he  turned  and  faced  her  with  a  sudden  gleam  in  his 
eye.  "  There  is  one  thing  yet  unexplained — the 
burning  of  the  Chateau  de  Yasselot.  An  empty 
house  does  not  ignite  itself.     Explain  me  that." 

Mademoiselle  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  That  still  remains  to  be  explained,"  she  said. 
"  In  the  meantime  we  must  act." 

"I  know  that — I  know  that,"  he  cried.  " I  have 
acted  !     I  am  acting  !     De  Yasselot  arrives  in  Cor- 


"CE  QUE  FEMME  VEUT  "  261 

sica  to-morrow  night.  A  letter  from  him  crossed 
the  message  I  sent  to  him  by  a  special  boat  from  St. 
Florent  last  night." 

"  "What  brings  him  here  ?  " 

The  abbe  turned  and  looked  at  her  with  scorn. 

"  Bah  ! "  he  cried.  "  You  know  as  well  as  I.  It 
is  the  eyes  of  Mademoiselle  Denise." 

He  took  his  hat  and  went  toward  the  door. 

"  On  Wednesday  morning,  if  you  do  not  see  me 
before,  at  the  office  of  the  notary,  in  the  Boulevard 
du  Palais  at  Bastia,"  he  said.  "  Where  there  will 
be  a  pretty  salad  for  Mister  the  Colonel,  prepared 
for  him  by  a  woman  and  a  priest — eh !  Both  A-^our 
witnesses  shall  be  there,  mademoiselle — both." 

He  broke  off  with  a  laugh  and  an  upward  jerk  of 
the  head. 

"  Ah  !  but  he  is  a  pretty  scoundrel,  your  colonel." 

"  He  is  not  my  colonel,"  returned  Mademoiselle 
Brun.  "  Besides,  even  he  has  his  good  points.  He 
is  brave,  and  he  is  capable  of  an  honest  affection." 

The  priest  gave  a  scornful  laugh. 

"  Ah  !  you  women,"  he  cried.  "  You  think  that 
excuses  everything.  You  do  not  know  that  if  it  is 
worth  anything  it  should  make  a  man  better  instead 
of  worse.  Otherwise  it  is  not  worth  a  snap  of  my 
finger — your  honest  affection." 

And  he  came  back  into  the  room  on  purpose  to 
snap  his  finger,  in  his  rude  way,  quite  close  to  Ma- 
demoiselle Brun's  parchment  face. 


CHAPTEE  XXY 

ON   THE   GREAT   ROAD 

"  Look  in  my  face ;  my  name  is  Might-Have-Been. 
I  am  also  called  No  More,  Too  Late,  Farewell." 

"  This,"  said  the  captain  of  the  Jane,  the  Baron 
de  Melide's  yacht,  "  is  the  bay  of  St.  Florent.  We 
anchor  a  little  further  in." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Lory,  who  stood  on  the  bridge 
beside  the  sailor,  "  I  know  it.  I  am  glad  to  see  it 
again — to  smell  the  smell  of  Corsica  again." 

"Monsieur  le  Comte  is  attached  to  his  native 
country  ? "  suggested  the  captain,  consulting  the 
chart  which  he  held  folded  in  his  hand. 

De  Vasselot  was  looking  through  a  pair  of  marine 
glasses  across  the  hills  to  where  the  Perucca  rock 
jutted  out  of  the  mountain-side. 

"  No  ;  I  hate  it.  But  I  am  glad  to  come  back," 
he  said. 

"  Monsieur  will  be  welcomed  by  his  people.  It 
is  a  great  power,  the  voice  of  the  people."  For  the 
captain  was  a  Eepublican. 

"  It  is  the  bleating  of  sheep,  mon  capitaine,"  re- 
turned de  Yasselot,  with  a  laugh. 

They  stood  side  by  side  in  silence  while  the 
steamer  crept  steadily  forward  into  the  shallow 
bay.     Already  a  boat  had  left  the  town  wall,  and 

262 


ON  THE  GREAT  ROAD  263 

was  sailing  out  leisurely  on  the  evening  breeze  to- 
ward them.  It  came  alongside.  De  Vasselot  gave 
some  last  instructions  to  the  captain,  said  farewell, 
and  left  the  ship.  It  was  a  soldier's  breeze,  and 
the  boat  ran  free.  In  a  few  minutes  de  Vasselot 
stepped  ashore.  The  abbe  was  waiting  for  him  at 
the  steps.  It  was  almost  dark,  but  de  Vasselot 
could  see  the  priest's  black  eyes  flashing  with  some 
new  excitement.  De  Vasselot  held  out  his  hand, 
but  Susini  made  a  movement,  of  which  the  new- 
comer recognised  the  significance  in  his  quick  way. 
He  took  a  step  forward,  and  they  embraced  after 
the  manner  of  the  French. 

"  Voila !  "  said  the  abbe,  "  we  are  friends  at  last." 

"  I  have  always  known  that  you  were  mine,"  an- 
swered Lory. 

"  Good.  And  now  I  have  bad  news  for  you.  A 
friend's  privilege,  Monsieur  le  Comte." 

"  Ah,"  said  Lory,  looking  sharply  at  him. 

"  Your  father.  I  have  found  him  and  lost  him 
again.  I  found  him  where  I  knew  he  would  be,  in 
the  macquis,  living  the  life  that  they  live  there, 
with  perfect  tranquillity.  Jean  was  with  him.  By 
some  means  or  other  Jean  got  wind  of  a  proposed 
investigation  of  the  chateau.  The  Peruccas  people 
have  been  stirred  up  lately ;  but  that  is  a  long  story 
which  I  cannot  tell  you  now.  At  all  events,  they 
quitted  the  chateau  a  few  hours  before  the  house 
was  mysteriously  burnt  down.  To-day  I  received 
a  message  from  Jean.  Your  father  left  their  camp 
before  daybreak  to-day.     All  night  he  had  been 


264  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

restless.  He  was  in  a  panic  that  the  Peruccas  are 
seeking  him.  He  is  no  longer  responsible,  mon 
ami ;  his  mind  is  gone.  From  his  muttered  talk  of 
the  last  few  days,  they  conclude  that  he  is  making 
his  way  south  to  Bonifacio,  in  order  to  cross  the 
straits  from  there  to  Sardinia.  He  is  on  foot,  alone, 
and  deranged.     There  is  my  news." 

"  And  Jean  ? "  asked  de  Vasselot,  curtly  ;  for  he 
was  quick  in  decision  and  in  action. 

"  Jean  has  but  half  recovered  from  an  accident. 
The  small  bone  of  his  leg  was  broken  hy  a  fall. 
He  is  following  on  the  back  of  an  old  horse  which 
cannot  trot,  the  only  one  he  could  procure.  I  have 
ready  for  you  a  good  horse.  You  have  but  to  fol- 
low the  track  over  the  mountains  due  south — you 
know  the  stars,  you,  who  are  a  cavalry  officer — 
until  you  join  the  Corte  road  at  Ponte  Alle  Leccia, 
then  there  is  but  the  one  road  to  Bocognano.  If  you 
overtake  your  poor  father,  you  have  but  to  detain 
him  until  Jean  comes  up.  You  may  trust  Jean  to 
bring  him  safely  back  to  the  yacht  here  as  arranged. 
But  you  must  be  at  Bastia  at  the  Hotel  Clement  at 
ten  o'clock  on  Wednesday  morning.  That  is  abso- 
lutely necessary.  You  understand — life  or  death, 
you  must  be  there.  I  and  a  woman,  who  is  clever 
enough,  are  mixing  a  salad  for  some  one  at  Bastia 
on  Wednesday  morning,  and  it  is  you  who  are  the 
vinegar." 

"  Where  is  the  horse  ?  "  asked  Lory. 

"  It  is  a  few  paces  away.  Come,  I  will  show 
you." 


ON  THE  GEEAT  ROAD  265 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Lory,  whose  voice  had  a  ring  of  ex- 
citement in  it  that  always  came  when  action  was 
imminent.  "  But  I  cannot  go  at  that  pace.  It  is 
not  only  Jean  who  has  but  one  leg.  Your  arm — 
thank  you.     ISTow  we  can  go." 

And  he  limped  by  the  side  of  Susini  through  the 
dark  alle3^s  of  St,  Florent.  The  horse  was  waiting 
for  them  beneath  an  archway  which  de  Vasselot  re- 
membered. It  was  the  entry  to  the  stable  where 
he  had  left  his  horse  on  the  occasion  of  his  first  ar- 
rival in  Corsica. 

"  Aha  !  "  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  glee  as  he  settled 
himself  in  the  saddle.  "  It  is  good  to  be  across  a 
horse  again.  Pity  you  are  a  priest ;  you  might 
come  with  me.  It  will  be  a  fine  night  for  a  ride. 
What  a  pity  you  are  a  priest !  You  were  not 
meant  for  one,  you  know." 

"  I  am  as  the  good  God  made  me,  and  a  little 
worse,"  returned  Susini,     "  That  is  your  road." 

And  so  they  parted.  Lory  rode  on,  happy  in  that 
he  was  called  upon  to  act  without  too  much 
thought.  For  those  who  think  most,  laugh  least, 
De  Yasselot's  life  had  been  empty  enough  until  the 
outbreak  of  the  war,  and  now  it  was  full  to  over- 
flowing. And  though  France  had  fallen,  and  he 
himself,  it  would  appear,  must  be  a  pauper ;  though  his 
father  must  inevitably  be  a  living  sorrow,  which  one 
who  tasted  it  has  told  us  is  worse  than  a  dead  one ; 
though  Denise  would  have  nothing  to  sa}'"  to  him, — 
yet  he  was  happier  than  he  had  ever  been.  He  was 
wise  enough  not  to  sift  his  happiness.      He   had 


266  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

never  spoken  of  it  to  others.  It  is  wise  not  to  con- 
fide one's  happiness  to  another ;  he  may  pull  it  to 
pieces  in  his  endeavour  to  find  out  how  it  is  made. 

The  onlooker  may  only  guess  at  the  inner  parts 
of  another's  life ;  but  at  times  one  may  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  light  that  another  sees.  And  it  is, 
therefore,  to  be  safely  presumed  that  Lory  de  Yas- 
selot  found  a  certain  happiness  in  the  unswerving 
execution  of  his  duty.  Not  only  as  a  soldier,  but  as 
a  man,  he  rejoiced  in  a  strict  sense  of  duty,  which, 
in  sober  earnest,  is  one  of  the  best  gifts  that  a  man 
may  possess.  He  had  not  inherited  it  from  father 
or  mother.  He  had  not  acquired  it  at  St.  Cyr.  He 
had  merely  received  it  at  second-hand  from  Made- 
moiselle Brun,  at  third-hand  from  that  fat  old 
General  Lange  who  fell  at  Solferino.  For  the 
schoolgirl  in  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  was  quite 
right  when  she  had  pounced  upon  Mademoiselle 
Brun's  secret,  which,  however,  lay  safely  dead  and 
buried  on  that  battlefield.  And  Mademoiselle 
Brun  had  taught,  had  shaped  Henri  de  Melide ;  and 
Henri  de  Melide  had  always  been  Lory  de  Vasse- 
lot's  best  friend.  So  the  thin  silver  thread  of  good 
had  been  woven  through  the  web  of  more  lives 
than  the  little  woman  ever  dreamt.  Who  shall  say 
what  good  or  what  evil  the  meanest  of  us  may  thus 
accomplish  ? 

De  Vasselot  never  thought  of  these  things.  He 
was  content  to  go  straight  ahead  without  looking 
down  those  side  paths  into  which  so  many  immature 
thinkers    stray.       He   had   fought   at   Sedan,  had 


ON  THE  GREAT  ROAD  267 

thrown  his  life  with  no  niggard  hand  into  the 
balance.  "When  wounded  he  had  cunningly  escaped 
the  attentions  of  the  oflBcial  field  hospitals.  He 
might  easily  have  sent  in  his  name  to  Prussian 
headquarters  as  that  of  a  wounded  officer  begging 
to  be  released  on  parole.  But  he  cherished  the 
idea  of  living  to  fight  another  day.  Denise,  with 
word  and  glance,  and,  more  potent  still,  with 
silence,  had  tempted  him  a  hundred  times  to  aban- 
don the  idea  of  further  service  to  France.  "  She 
does  not  understand,"  he  concluded  ;  and  he  threw 
Denise  into  the  balance.  She  made  it  clear  to  him 
that  he  must  choose  between  her  and  France. 
Without  hesitation  he  threw  his  happiness  into  the 
balance.  For  this  Corsican — this  dapper  sportsman 
of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  Longchamps — was, 
after  all,  that  creation  of  which  the  world  has  need 
to  be  most  proud — a  man. 

Duty  had  been  his  guiding  light,  though  he  him- 
self would  have  laughed  the  gayest  denial  to  such 
an  accusation.  Duty  had  brought  him  to  Corsica. 
And — for  there  is  no  human  happiness  that  is  not 
spiced  by  duty — he  had  the  hope  of  seeing  Denise. 

He  rode  up  the  valley  of  the  Guadelle  blithely 
enough,  despite  the  fact  that  his  leg  pained  him  and 
his  left  arm  ached  abominably.  Of  course,  he 
would  find  his  father — he  knew  that ;  and  the  peace 
and  quiet  of  some  rural  home  in  France  would  re- 
store the  wandering  reason.  And  all  was  for  the 
best  in  the  best  possible  world !  For  Lory  was  a 
Frenchman,  and  into  the  French  nature  there  has 


268  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

assuredly  filtered  some  of  the  light  of  that  sunny 
land. 

At  more  than  one  turn  of  the  road  he  looked  up 
toward  Perucca.  Once  he  saw  a  light  in  one  of  the 
windows  of  the  old  house.  Slowly  he  climbed  to 
the  level  of  the  tableland ;  and  Denise,  sitting  at 
the  open  -window,  heard  the  sound  of  his  horse's 
feet,  and  -wondered  w^ho  might  be  abroad  at  that 
hour.  He  glanced  at  the  ruined  chapel  that  towers 
above  the  Chateau  de  Yasselot  on  its  rocky  prom- 
ontory, and  peered  curiously  down  into  the  black 
valley,  where  the  charred  remains  of  his  ancestral 
home  are  to  be  found  to  this  day.  Murato  was 
asleep — a  silent  group  of  stone-roofed  houses,  one 
of  w^hich,  however,  had  seen  the  birth  of  a  man  no- 
torious enough  in  his  day — Fieschi,  the  would-be 
assassin  of  Louis  Philippe.  Every  village  in  this 
island  has,  it  would  seem,  the  odour  of  blood. 

The  road  now  mounted  steadily,  and  presently 
led  through  the  rocky  defile  vrhere  Susini  had 
turned  back  on  a  similar  errand  scarce  a  week 
earlier.  The  rider  now  emerged  into  the  open,  and 
made  his  careful  way  along  the  face  of  a  mountain. 
The  chill  air  bespoke  a  great  altitude,  which  was 
confirmed  by  that  waiting,  throbbing  silence  which 
is  of  the  summits.  Far  down  on  the  right,  across 
rolling  ranges  of  lower  hills,  a  steady  pin-point  of 
light  twinkled  like  a  star.  It  was  the  lighthouse 
of  Punta-Kevellata,  by  Calvi,  twenty  miles  away. 

The  night  was  clear  and  dark.  A  few  clouds  lay 
on  the  horizon  to  the  south,  and  all  the  dome  of 


ON  THE  GREAT  ROAD  269 

heaven  was  a  glittering  field  of  stars.  De  Yasse- 
lot's  horse  was  small  and  wiry — part  Arab,  part 
mountain  pony — and  attended  to  his  own  affairs 
with  the  careful  and  surprising  intelligence  pos- 
sessed by  horses,  mules,  and  donkeys  that  are  born 
and  bred  to  mountain  roads.  After  Murato  the 
track  had  descended  sharply,  only  to  mount  again 
to  the  heights  dividing  the  watersheds  of  the  Be- 
vinco  and  the  Golo.  And  now  de  Vasselot  could 
hear  the  Golo  roaring  in  its  rocky  bed  in  the  valley 
below.  He  knew  that  he  was  safe  now,  for  he  had 
merely  to  follow  the  river  till  it  led  him  to  the  high- 
road at  Ponte  Alle  Leccia.  The  country  here  was 
more  fertile,  and  the  track  led  through  the  thickest 
macquis.  The  subtle  scent  of  flowering  bushes 
filled  the  air  with  a  cool,  soft  flavour,  almost  to  be 
tasted  on  the  lips,  of  arbutus,  myrtle,  cistus,  olean- 
der, tamarisk,  and  a  score  of  flowering  heaths.  The 
silence  here  was  broken  incessantly  by  the  stirring 
of  the  birds,  which  swarm  in  these  berry-bearing 
coppices. 

The  track  crossed  the  narrow,  flat  valley,  where, 
a  hundred  years  earlier,  had  been  fought  the  last 
great  fight  that  finally  subjugated  Corsica  to 
France.  Here  de  Yasselot  passed  through  some 
patches  of  cultivated  ground — rare  enough  in  this 
fertile  land — noted  the  shadowy  shape  of  a  couple 
of  houses,  and  suddenly  found  himself  on  the  high- 
road. He  had  spared  his  horse  hitherto,  but  now 
urged  the  willing  beast  to  a  better  pace.  This  took 
the  form  of  an  uneven,  fatiguing  trot,  which,  how- 


270  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

ever,  made  good  account  of  the  kilometres,  and  de 
Yasselot  noted  mechanically  the  recurrence  of  the 
little  square  stones  every  five  or  six  minutes. 

It  was  during  that  darkest  hour  which  precedes 
the  dawn  that  he  skirted  the  old  capital,  Corte, 
straggling  up  the  hillside  to  the  towering  citadel 
standing  out  grey  and  solemn  against  its  background 
of  great  mountains.  The  rider  could  now  see 
dimly  a  snow-clad  height  here  and  there.  Halfway 
between  Corte  and  Yivario,  where  the  road  climbs 
thi'ough  bare  heights,  he  paused,  and  then  hurried 
on  again.  He  had  heard  in  this  desert  stillness  the 
beat  of  a  horse's  feet  on  the  road  in  front  of  him. 
He  was  not  mistaken,  for  when  he  drew  up  to  listen. 
a  second  time  there  Avas  no  sound.  The  rider  had 
stopped,  and  was  waiting  for  him.  The  outline  of 
his  form  could  be  seen  against  the  starry  sky  at  a 
turn  in  the  road  further  up  the  mountain-side. 

"  Is  that  you,  Jean  ?  "  cried  Lory. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  voice  of  the  man  who  rarely 
spoke. 

The  two  horses  exchanged  a  low,  gurgled  greet- 
ing. 

"  Are  we  on  the  right  road  ?  What  is  the  next 
village  ?  "  asked  Lory. 

"  The  next  is  a  town — Yivario.  We  are  on  the 
right  road.  At  Yivario  turn  to  the  right,  where 
the  road  divides.  He  is  going  that  way,  through 
Bocognano  and  Bastelica  to  Sartene  and  Bonifacio. 
I  have  heard  of  him  many  times,  from  one  and  the 
other." 


ON  THE  GKEAT  ROAD  271 

From  one  and  the  other !  De  Yasselot  half 
turned  in  his  saddle  to  glance  back  at  the  road  over 
which  he  had  travelled.  He  had  seen  and  heard 
no  one  all  through  the  night. 

"  He  procured  a  horse  at  Corte  last  evening," 
continued  Jean.  "  It  seems  a  good  one.  What  is 
yours  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  mine,"  answered  de  Yasselot ; 
"  I  can  only  feel  him.  But  I  think  there  are  thirty 
kilometres  in  him  yet."  As  he  spoke  he  had  his 
hand  in  his  pocket.  "Here,"  he  said.  "Take 
some  money.  Get  a  better  horse  at  Vivario  and 
follow  me.  It  will  be  daylight  in  an  hour.  Tell 
me  again  the  names  of  the  places  on  the  road." 

"Yivario,  Bocognano,  Bastelica,  Cauro,  Sartene, 
Bonifacio,"  repeated  Jean,  like  a  lesson. 

"  Vivario,  Bocognano,  Bastelica,  Cauro,  Sartene," 
muttered  de  Vasselot,  as  he  rode  on. 

He  was  in  the  great  forest  of  Yizzavona  when  the 
day  broke,  and  he  saw  through  the  giant  pines  the 
rosy  tints  of  sunrise  on  the  summit  of  Monte  D'Oro, 
from  whence  at  dawn  may  be  seen  the  coast-line 
of  Italy  and  France  and,  like  dots  upon  a  map,  all 
the  islets  of  the  sea.  Still  he  met  no  one — had  seen 
no  living  being  but  Jean  since  quitting  St.  Florent 
at  the  other  extremity  of  the  island. 

It  was  freezingly  cold  at  the  summit  of  the  pass 
where  the  road  traverses  a  cleft  in  the  mountain- 
range,  and  de  Yasselot  felt  that  weariness  which 
comes  to  men,  however  strong,  just  before  the  dawn 
ends  a  sleepless  night.     The  horse,  as  he  had  told 


272  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

Jean,  was  still  fresh  enough,  and  gained  new  energy 
as  the  air  grew  lighter.  The  mountain  town  of 
Bocognano  lies  below  the  road,  and  the  scent  of 
burning  pinewood  told  that  the  peasants  were  astir. 
Here  de  Vasselot  quitted  the  highway,  and  took  a 
side-road  to  Bastelica.  As  he  came  round  the 
slope  of  Monte  Mezzo,  the  sun  climbed  up  into  the 
open  sky,  and  flooded  the  broad  valley  of  the 
Prunelli  with  light.  De  Vasselot  had  been  cross- 
ing watersheds  all  night,  climbing  out  of  one  valley 
only  to  descend  into  another,  crossing  river  after 
river  with  a  monotony  only  varied  by  the  various 
dangers  of  the  bridges.  The  valley  of  the  Prunelli 
seemed  no  different  from  others  until  he  looked 
across  it,  and  perceived  his  road  mounting  on  the 
opposite  slope.  A  single  horseman  was  riding 
southward  at  a  good  pace.  It  was  his  father  at 
last. 


CHAPTER  XXYI 

THE  END   OF  THE  JOURNEY 

"  La  journee  sera  dure, 
Mais  elle  se  passera." 

At  the  sight  of  the  horseman  on  the  road  in 
front  of  him,  those  instincts  of  the  chase  which 
must  inevitably  be  found  in  all  manly  hearts,  were 
suddenly  aroused,  and  Lory  surprised  his  willing 
horse  by  using  the  spurs,  of  which  the  animal  had 
hitherto  been  happily  ignorant. 

At  the  same  time  he  made  a  mistake.  He  gave 
an  eager  shout,  quite  forgetting  that  the  count  had 
never  seen  him  in  uniform,  and  would  inevitably 
perceive  the  glint  of  his  accoutrements  in  the  sun- 
light. The  instinct  of  the  macquis  was  doubtless 
strong  upon  the  fugitive.  There  are  certain  habits 
of  thought  acquired  in  a  brief  period  of  outlawry, 
which  years  of  respectability  can  never  efface.  The 
count,  who  had  lived  in  secrecy  more  than  half  his 
life,  took  fright  at  the  sight  of  a  sword,  and  down 
the  quiet  valley  of  the  Prunelli  father  and  son 
galloped  one  after  the  other — a  wild  and  uncanny 
chase. 

With  the  cunning  of  the  hunted,  the  count  left 
the  road  by  the  first  opening  he  saw — a  path  leading 
into  a  pine-wood ;  but  over  this  rough  ground  the 

273 


274  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

trained  soldier  was  equal  to  the  native-born.  The 
track  only  led  to  the  open  road  again  at  a  higher 
level,  and  de  Vasselot  had  gained  on  his  father 
when  they  emerged  from  the  wood. 

Lory  had  called  to  his  father  once  or  twice, 
reassuring  him,  but  without  effect.  The  old  count 
sat  low  in  his  saddle  and  urged  his  horse  with  a 
mechanical  jerk  of  the  heels.  Thus  they  passed 
through  the  village  of  Bastelica — a  place  with  an 
evil  name.  It  was  early  still,  and  but  few  were 
astir,  for  the  peasants  of  the  South  are  idle.  In 
Corsica,  moreover,  the  sight  of  a  flying  man  always 
sends  others  into  hiding.  No  man  wishes  to  see 
him,  though  all  sympathies  are  with  him,  and  the 
pursuer  is  avoided  as  if  he  bore  the  plague. 

In  Bastelica  there  were  none  but  closed  doors 
and  windows.  A  few  children  playing  in  the 
road  instinctively  ran  to  their  homes,  where  their 
mothers  drew  them  hurriedly  indoors.  The  Bas- 
telicans  would  have  nought  to  do  with  the  law  or 
the  law-breaker.  It  Avas  the  sullen  indifference  of 
the  crushed,  but  the  unconquered. 

Down  into  the  valley,  across  another  river — the 
southern  branch  of  the  Prunelli — and  up  again. 
Cauro  was  above  them — a  straggling  village  with 
one  large  square  house  and  a  little  church — Cauro, 
the  stepping-stone  between  civilisation  and  those 
wild  districts  about  Sartene  where  the  law  has 
never  yet  penetrated.  Lory  de  Vasselot  had 
gained  a  little  on  the  downward  incline.  He 
could  now  see  that  his  father's  clothes  were  mud- 


THE  END  OF  THE  JOUKNEY        275 

stained  and  torn,  that  his  long  white  hair  was  ill- 
kempt.  But  the  pursuer's  horse  was  tired ;  for  de 
Yasselot  had  been  unable  to  relieve  him  of  his 
burden  all  through  the  night.  Lame  and  disabled, 
he  could  not  mount  or  dismount  without  assistance. 
On  the  upward  slope,  where  the  road  climbs  through 
a  rocky  gorge,  the  fugitive  gained  ground.  Out  on 
the  open  road  again,  within  sight  of  Cauro,  the 
count's  horse  showed  signs  of  distress,  but  gained 
visibly.  The  count  was  unsteady  in  the  saddle, 
riding  heedlessly.  In  an  instant  de  Yasselot  saw 
the  danger.  His  father  was  dropping  with  fatigue, 
and  might  at  any  moment  fall  from  the  saddle. 
"  Stop,"  he  cried,  "  or  I  will  shoot  your  horse  ! " 
The  count  took  no  notice.  Perhaps  he  did  not 
hear.  The  road  now  mounted  in  a  zigzag.  The 
fugitive  was  already  at  the  angle.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments he  would  be  back  again  at  a  higher  level. 
Lory  knew  he  could  never  overtake  the  fresher 
horse.  There  was  but  one  chance — the  chance  per- 
haps of  two  shots  as  his  father  passed  along  the 
road  above  him.  Should  the  gendarmes  of  Cauro, 
where  there  is  a  strong  station,  see  this  fugitive,  so 
evidently  from  the  macquis.  with  all  the  signs  of 
outlawry  upon  him,  they  would  fire  upon  him  with- 
out hesitation.  Also  he  might  at  any  moment  fall 
from  the  saddle  and  be  dragged  by  the  stirrup. 

De  Yasselot  drew  across  the  road  to  the  outer 
edge  of  it,  from  whence  he  could  command  a  better 
view  of  the  upper  slope.  The  count  came  on  at  a 
steady  trot.     He  looked  down  with  eyes  that  had 


276  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

no  reason  in  them  and  yet  no  fear.  He  saw  the 
barrel  of  the  revolver,  polished  by  long  use  in  an 
inner  pocket,  and  looked  fearlessly  into  it.  Lory 
fired  and  missed.  His  father  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed.  His  white  hair  fluttered  in  the  wind. 
There  was  time  for  another  shot.  Lory  took  a 
longer  aim,  remembering  to  fire  low,  and  horse  and 
rider  suddenly  dropped  behind  the  low  wall  of  the 
upper  road.     De  Vasselot  rode  on. 

"  It  was  the  horse — it  must  have  been  the  horse," 
he  said  to  himself,  with  misgiving  in  his  heart.  He 
turned  the  corner  at  a  gallop.  On  the  road  in 
front,  the  horse  was  struggling  to  rise,  but  the 
count  lay  quite  still  in  the  dust.  Lory  dismounted 
as  well  as  he  could.  Mechanically  he  tied  the  two 
horses  together,  then  turned  toward  his  father. 
With  his  uninjured  hand  he  took  the  old  man  by  the 
shoulder  and  raised  him.  The  dishevelled  white 
head  fell  to  one  side  with  a  jerk  that  was  unmistak- 
able. The  count  was  dead.  And  Lory  de  Yasselot 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  that  question 
which  so  many  have  with  them  all  through  life : 
the  question  whether  at  a  certain  point  in  the 
crooked  road  of  life  he  took  the  wrong  or  right 
turning. 

Death  itself  had  no  particular  terror  for  de 
Yasselot.  It  was  his  trade,  and  it  is  easier  to  be- 
come familiar  Avith  death  than  with  suffering.  He 
dragged  his  father  to  the  side  of  the  road  where  a 
great  chestnut  tree  cast  a  shadow  still,  though  its 
leaves  were  falling.      Then  he  looked  round  him. 


THE  END  OF  THE  JOURNEY        277 

There  was  no  one  in  sight.  He  knew,  moreover, 
that  he  was  in  a  country  where  the  report  of  fire- 
arms repels  rather  than  attracts  attention.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  at  that  moment  that  his  father's  horse 
had  risen  to  its  feet — a  fact  which  had  suggested 
nothing  to  his  mind  when  he  had  tied  the  two 
bridles  together.  He  examined  the  animal  care- 
fully. There  was  no  blood  upon  it;  no  wound. 
The  dust  was  rubbed  away  from  the  knees.  The 
horse  had  crossed  its  legs  and  fallen  as  it  started  at 
the  second  report  of  his  pistol. 

Lory  turned  and  stooped  over  his  father.  Here 
again,  was  no  blood — only  the  evidence  of  a  broken 
neck.  Still,  though  indirectly,  Lory  de  Vasselot 
had  killed  his  father.  It  was  well  for  him  that  he 
was  a  soldier — taught  by  experience  to  give  their 
true  value  to  the  strange  changes  of  life  and  death. 
Moreover,  he  w^as  a  Frenchman — gay  in  life  and 
reckless  of  its  end. 

He  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  road  and  remem- 
bered the  Abbe  Susini's  words :  "  Life  or  death, 
you  must  be  at  Bastia  on  Wednesday  morning." 

Mechanically,  he  drew  his  watch  from  within  his 
tunic,  which  Avas  white  with  dust.  The  watch  had 
run  down.  And  when  Jean  arrived  a  few  minutes 
later,  he  found  Lory  de  Vasselot  sitting  in  the 
shade  of  the  great  chestnut  tree,  by  the  side  of  his 
dead  father,  sleepily  winding  up  his  w^atch. 

"  I  fired  at  the  horse  to  lame  it — it  crossed  its 
legs  and  fell,  throwing  him  against  the  waU,"  he 
said,  shortly. 


278  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

Jean  lifted  Jiis  master,  noted  the  swinging  head, 
and  laid  him  gently  down  again. 

"  Heaven  soon  takes  those  who  are  useless,"  he 
said. 

Then  he  slipped  his  hand  within  the  old  man's 
jacket.  The  inner  pockets  were  stuffed  full  of 
papers,  which  Jean  carefully  withdrew.  Some 
were  tied  together  with  pink  tape,  long  since  faded 
to  a  dull  grey.  He  made  one  packet  of  them  all 
and  handed  them  to  Lory. 

"  It  was  for  those  that  they  burnt  the  chateau," 
he  said ;  "  but  we  have  outwitted  them." 

De  Vasselot  turned  the  clumsy  parcel  in  his 
hand. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  is  the  papers  of  Vasselot  and  Perucca — your 
title-deeds." 

Lory  laid  the  papers  on  the  bank  beside  him. 

"  In  your  pocket,"  corrected  Jean,  gruffly.  "  That 
is  the  place  for  them." 

And  while  Lory  was  securing  the  packet  inside 
his  tunic,  the  unusually  silent  man  spoke  again. 

"  It  is  Fate  who  has  handed  them  to  you,"  he 
said. 

"  Then  you  think  that  Fate  has  time  to  think  of 
the  affairs  of  the  Yasselots  ?  " 

"  I  believe  it,  monsieur  le  comte." 

They  fell  to  talking  of  the  past,  and  of  the  count. 
Then  de  Vasselot  told  his  companion  that  he  must 
be  in  Bastia  in  less  than  twenty-four  hours,  and 
Jean,  whose  gloomy  face  was  drawn  and  pinched 


THE  END  OF  THE  JOURNEY        2^79 

by  past  hardships,  and  a  present  desire  for  sleep, 
was  alert  in  a  moment. 

"  When  the  abbe  says  it,  it  is  important,"  he  said. 

"  But  it  is  easily  done,"  protested  de  Vasselot,  who 
like  many  men  of  action  had  a  certain  contempt 
for  those  crises  in  life  which  are  but  matters  of 
words.  Which  is  a  mistake ;  for  as  the  world  pro- 
gresses it  grows  more  verbose,  and  for  one  moment 
of  action,  there  are  in  men's  lives  to-day  a  million 
words. 

"It  is  to  be  done,"  answered  Jean,  "but  not 
easily.  You  must  ride  to  Porto  Yecchib  and  there 
find  a  man  called  Casabianda.  You  will  find  him 
on  the  quay  or  in  the  Cafe  Amis.  Tell  him  your 
name,  and  that  you  must  be  at  Bastia  by  daybreak. 
He  has  a  good  boat." 

Lory  rose  to  his  feet.  There  was  a  light  in  his 
tired  eyes,  and  he  sighed  as  he  passed  his  hand 
across  them,  for  the  thought  of  further  action  was 
like  wine  to  him. 

"  But  I  must  sleep,  Jean,  I  must  sleep,"  he  said, 
lightly. 

"  You  can  do  that  in  Casabianda's  boat,"  an- 
swered Jean,  who  was  already  changing  de  Vasse- 
lot's  good  saddle  to  the  back  of  his  own  fresher 
horse. 

Jean  had  to  lift  his  master  into  the  saddle,  which 
office  the  wiry  Susini  had  performed  for  him  at  St. 
Florent  fourteen  hours  earlier.  There  is  a  good  inn 
at  Cauro  where  de  Vasselot  procured  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  some  bread  without  dismounting.     Jean 


280  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

had  given  him  a  list  of  names,  and  the  route  to 
Porto  Vecchio  was  not  a  difficult  one,  though  it  led 
through  a  deserted  country.  By  midday,  de  Yasse- 
lot  caught  sight  of  the  Eastern  sea ;  by  three  o'clock 
he  saw  the  great  gulf  of  Porto  Vecchio,  and  before 
sunset  he  rode,  half-asleep,  into  the  ancient  town 
with  its  crumbling  walls  and  ill-paved  streets.  He 
had  ridden  in  safety  through  one  of  the  waste 
places  of  this  province  of  France — a  canton  wherein 
a  few  years  ago  a  well-known  bandit  had  forbidden 
the  postal-service,  and  that  postal-service  was  not — 
and  he  knew  enough  to  be  aware  that  the  mysteri- 
ous messengers  of  the  macquis  had  cleared  the  way 
before  him.  But  de  Vasselot  only  fully  realised 
the  magic  of  his  own  name  when  he  at  length 
found  the  man,  Casabianda — a  scoundrel  whose 
personal  appearance  must  assuredly  have  condemned 
him  without  further  evidence  in  any  court  of  justice 
except  a  Corsican  court — who  bowed  before  him  as 
before  a  king,  and  laid  violent  hands  upon  his  wife 
and  daughter  a  few  minutes  later  because  the  do- 
mestic linen  chest  failed  to  rise  to  the  height  of  a 
clean  table  cloth. 

The  hospitality  of  Casabianda  outlasted  the  sun. 
He  had  the  virtues  of  his  primitive  race,  and  that 
appreciation  of  a  guest  which  urges  the  entertainer 
to  give  not  only  the  best  that  he  has,  but  the  best 
that  he  can  borrow  or  steal. 

"  There  is  no  breeze,"  said  this  Porto  Yecchian, 
jovially  ;  "  it  will  come  with  the  night.  In  wait- 
ing, this  is  Avine  of  Balagna." 


THE  END  OF  THE  JOUKNEY         281 

And  he  drank  perdition  to  the  Peruccas. 

With  nig'litfall  they  set  sail ;  the  great  lateen 
swinging  lazily  under  the  pressure  of  those  light 
airs  that  flit  to  and  fro  over  the  islands  at  evening 
and  sunrise.  All  the  arts  of  civilisation  have  as 
yet  failed  to  approach  the  easiest  of  all  modes  of 
progression  and  conveyance — sailing  on  a  light 
breeze.  For  here  is  speed  without  friction,  passage 
through  the  air  without  opposition,  for  it  is  the  air 
that  urges.  Afloat,  Casabianda  was  a  silent  man. 
His  seafaring  was  of  a  surreptitious  nature,  per- 
haps. For  companion,  he  had  one  with  no  roof  to 
his  mouth,  whose  speech  was  incomprehensible — an 
excellent  thing  in  law-breakers. 

De  Vasselot  was  soon  asleep,  and  slept  all  through 
that  quiet  night.  He  awoke  to  find  the  dawn 
spreading  its  pearly  light  over  the  sea.  The  great 
plain  of  Biguglia  lay  to  the  left  under  a  soft  blanket 
of  mist,  as  deadly  they  say,  as  any  African  miasma, 
above  which  the  distant  mountains  raised  summits 
already  tinged  with  rose.  Ahead  and  close  at 
hand,  the  old  town  of  Bastia  jutted  out  into  the 
sea,  the  bluff  Genoese  bastion  concealing  the  har- 
bour from  view.  De  Vasselot  had  never  been  to 
Bastia,  which  Casabianda  described  as  a  great  and 
bewildering  city,  where  the  unwary  might  soon  lose 
himself.  The  man  of  incomprehensible  speech  w^as, 
therefore,  sent  ashore  to  conduct  Lory  to  the  Hotel 
Clement.  Casabianda,  himself,  would  not  land. 
The  place  reeked,  he  said,  of  the  gendarmerie,  and 
was  offensive  to  his  nostrils. 


282  THE  ISLE  OF  UXEEST 

Clement  had  not  opened  his  hospitable  door.  The 
street  door,  of  course,  alTvays  stood  open,  and  the 
donkey  that  lived  in  the  entrance-hall  ^ras  astir. 
Lory  dismissed  his  guide,  and  after  ringing  a  bell 
which  tinkled  rather  disappointingly  just  within 
the  door,  sat  down  patiently  on  the  stairs  to  wait. 
At  length  the  ancient  chambermaid  (who  is  no 
servant,  but  just  a  woman,  in  the  strictly  domestic 
sense  of  that  fashionable  word)  reluctantly  opened 
the  door.  French  and  Italian  were  alike  incom- 
prehensible to  this  lady,  and  de  Tasselot  was  still 
explaining  with  much  volubility,  and  a  wealth  of 
gesture,  that  the  man  he  sought  wore  a  tonsure, 
when  Clement  himseK,  affable  and  supremely  indif- 
ferent to  the  scantiness  of  his  own  attire,  appeared. 

"  Take  the  gentleman  to  number  eleven,"  he  com- 
manded ;  "  the  Abbe  Susini  expects  him." 

The  last  statement  appeared  to  be  made  with  that 
breadth  of  veracity  which  is  the  special  privilege  of 
hotel-keepers  all  the  world  over  ;  for  the  abbe  was 
asleep  when  Lory  entered  his  apartment.  He 
awoke,  however,  with  a  characteristic  haste,  and  his 
first  conscious  movement  was  suggestive  of  a  readi- 
ness to  defend  himself  against  attack. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  cried,  with  a  laugh,  "  it  is  you.  You 
see  me  asleep." 

"  Asleep,  but  ready,"  answered  de  Yasselot,  with 
a  laugh.     He  liked  a  cjuick  man. 

Without  speaking,  he  unbuttoned  his  tunic  and 
threw  his  bundle  of  papers  on  the  abbe's  counter- 
pane. 


THE  END  OF  THE  JOURNEY         283 

"  Voila !  "  he  said.  "  I  suppose  that  is  what  you 
want  for  your  salad." 

"  It  is  what  Jean  and  I  have  been  trjang  to  get 
these  three  months,"  answered  the  priest. 

He  sat  up  in  bed,  and  from  that  difficult  position, 
did  the  honours  of  his  apartment  with  an  unassail- 
able dignity. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  tell  you  a  very 
long  story.  Kot  that  chair — those  are  my  clothes, 
my  best  soutane  for  this  occasion — the  other.  That 
is  well." 


CHAPTER  XXYII 

THE  abbe's   salad 

"  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 
Or  his  deserts  are  small. 
That  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch 
To  gain  or  lose  it  all." 

"  And  mademoiselle's  witnesses  ?  "  inquired  the 
notary,  when  he  had  accommodated  the  ladies  with 
chairs. 

"  Will  arrive  at  ten  o'clock,"  answered  Mademoi- 
selle Brun,  with  a  glance  at  the  notary's  clock. 

It  was  three  minutes  to  ten.  The  notary  was  a 
young  man,  with  smooth  hair  brushed  straight  back 
from  a  high  forehead.  He  was  one  of  those  men 
who  look  clever,  which,  in  some  respects,  is  better 
than  being  clever.  For  a  man  who  really  has  brains 
usually  perceives  his  own  limitations,  while  he  who 
looks  clever,  and  is  not,  has  that  boundless  faith  in 
himself  which  serves  to  carry  men  very  far  in  a 
world  which  is  too  lazy  to  get  up  and  kick  imper- 
tinence as  it  passes. 

The  room  had  that  atmosphere  of  mixed  stuffiness 
and  cigarette-smoke  which  the  traveller  may  sam- 
ple in  any  French  post  office.  It  is  also  the  official 
air  of  a  court  of  justice  or  a  public  bureau  of  any 
sort  in  France.     There  was  a  blank  space  on  the 

284 


THE  ABBA'S  SALAD  285 

wall,  where  a  portrait  of  the  emperor  had  lately 
hung.  The  notary  Avould  fill  it  by  and  by  with  a 
president  or  a  king,  or  any  face  of  any  man  who 
was  for  the  moment  in  authority.  Behind  him,  on 
the  wall,  was  suspended  a  photograph  of  an  elderly 
lady — his  mother.  It  established  confidence  in  the 
hearts  of  female  clients,  and  reminded  persons  with 
daughters  that  this  rising  lawyer  had  as  yet  no 
wife. 

The  notary's  bow  to  Mademoiselle  Brun  when  she 
was  seated  Avas  condescending,  which  betrayed  the 
small  fact  that  he  was  not  so  clever  as  he  looked. 
To  Denise  he  endeavoured  to  convey  in  one  grace- 
ful inclination  from  the  waist  the  deep  regard  of  a 
legal  adviser,  struggling  nobly  to  keep  in  bounds 
the  overwhelming  admiration  of  a  man  of  heart  and 
(out  of  office  hours)  of  spirit.  Gilbert,  who  had  al- 
ready exchanged  greetings  with  the  ladies,  was  lean- 
ing against  the  window,  playing  idly  with  the  blind- 
cord.  The  notary's  office  was  on  the  third  floor. 
The  colonel  could  not,  therefore,  see  the  pavement 
without  leaning  out,  and  the  window  was  shut. 
Mademoiselle  Brun  noted  this  as  she  sat  with  crossed 
hands.  She  also  remembered  that  the  Hotel  Clem- 
ent was  on  the  same  side  of  the  Boulevard  du  Palais 
as  the  house  in  which  she  found  herself. 

The  notary  had  intended  to  be  affable,  but  he 
dimly  perceived  that  Denise  was  what  he  tersely 
called  in  his  own  mind  grande  dame,  and  was  wise 
enough  to  busy  himself  with  his  papers  in  silence. 
He    also    suspected    that   Colonel   Gilbert   was   a 


286  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

friend  of  these  ladies,  but  he  did  not  care  to  take 
advantage  or  his  privilege  in  the  presence  of  a 
fourth  person,  which  left  an  unpleasant  flavour  on 
the  palate  of  the  smooth-haired  lawyer.  He 
glanced  involuntarily  at  the  blank  space  on  the 
wall,  and  thought  of  the  Kepublic. 

"  I  have  prepared  a  deed  of  sale,"  he  said,  in  a 
formal  voice,  "  which  is  as  binding  on  both  sides  as 
if  the  full  purchase-money  had  been  exchanged  for 
the  title-deeds.  All  that  will  remain  to  be  done 
after  the  present  signature  will  be  the  usual  legal 
formalities  between  notaries.  Mademoiselle  has 
but  to  sign  here."  And  he  indicated  a  blank  space 
on  the  document. 

Mademoiselle  Brun  was  looking  at  the  time-piece 
on  the  notary's  wall.  The  town  clocks  were  strik- 
ing the  hour.  A  knock  at  the  door  made  the  no- 
tary turn,  with  his  quill  pen  still  indicating  the 
space  for  Denise's  signature.  It  was  the  dingy 
clerk  who  sat  in  a  sort  of  cage  in  the  outer  office. 
After  opening  the  door  he  stood  aside,  and  Susini 
came  in  with  glittering  eyes  and  a  defiant  chin. 
There  was  a  pause,  and  Lory  de  Vasselot  limped 
into  the  room  after  him.  He  was  smiling  and 
pleasant  as  he  always  was  ;  even,  his  friends  said, 
on  the  battlefield. 

He  looked  at  Denise,  met  her  eyes  for  a  moment 
and  turned  to  bow  with  grave  politeness  to  Gil- 
bert. It  was,  oddly  enough,  the  colonel  Avho 
brought  forward  a  chair  for  the  wounded  man. 

*'  Sit  down,"  he  said  curtly. 


THE  ABBE'S  SALAD  28Y 

"  These  are  my  witnesses,  Monsieur  le  Notaire," 
said  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

The  abbe  was  rubbing  his  thin,  brown  hands  to- 
gether, and  contemplating  the  notary's  table  as  a 
greedy  man  might  contemplate  a  laden  board. 
The  notary  himself  was  looking  from  one  to  the 
other.  There  was  something  in  the  atmosphere 
which  he  did  not  understand.  It  was,  perhaps,  the 
presence  in  the  room  of  a  cleverer  head  than  his 
own,  and  he  did  not  know  upon  whose  shoulders  to 
locate  it.  Denise,  whose  nature  was  frank  and 
straightforward,  was  looking  at  Lory — looking 
him  reflectively  up  and  down — as  a  mother  might 
look  at  a  son  of  whose  health  she  refrains  from 
asking.  Mademoiselle  was  gazing  at  the  blank 
space  on  the  wall,  and  the  colonel  was  looking  at 
mademoiselle  with  an  odd  smile. 

He  was  standing  in  the  embrasure  of  the  win- 
dow, and  at  this  moment  glanced  at  his  watch. 
The  notary  looked  at  him  inquiringly  ;  for  his  atti- 
tude seemed  to  indicate  that  he  expected  some  one 
else.  And  at  this  moment  the  music  of  a  military 
band  burst  upon  their  ears.  The  colonel  looked 
over  his  shoulder  down  into  the  street.  He  had 
his  watch  in  his  hand.  De  Yasselot  rose  instantly 
and  went  to  the  window.  He  stood  beside  the  colo- 
nel, and  those  in  the  notary's  office  could  see  that 
they  were  talking  quickly  and  gravely  together, 
though  the  music  drowned  their  voices.  Behind 
them,  on  the  notary's  table,  lay  their  differences ; 
in  front  lay  that  which  bound  them  together  with 


288  THE  ISLE  OF  UIsREST 

the  strongest  ties  betAveen  man.  and  man — their 
honour  and  the  honour  of  France.  The  music  died 
away,  followed  by  the  diminishing  sound  of  steady 
feet.  All  in  the  room  were  silent  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, until  the  two  soldiers  turned  from  the  win- 
dow and  came  toward  the  table. 

Then  the  notary  spoke  : — 

"  Mademoiselle  has  but  to  sign  here,"  he  re- 
peated. 

He  indicated  the  exact  spot,  dipped  the  pen  in 
the  ink,  and  handed  it  to  Denise.  She  took  the 
pen  and  half  turned  toward  Lory,  as  if  she  knew 
that  he  would  be  the  next  to  speak  and  wished  him 
to  understand  once  and  for  all  that  he  would  speak 
in  vain. 

"  Mademoiselle  cannot  sign  there,"  he  said. 

Denise  dipped  the  pen  into  the  ink  again,  but  she 
did  not  sign. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  asked  without  looking  round, 
her  hand  still  resting  on  the  paper. 

"Because,"  answered  Lory,  addressing  her  di- 
rectly, "  Perucca  is  not  yours  to  sell.     It  is  mine." 

Denise  turned  and  looked  straight  at  Colonel 
Gilbert.  She  had  never  been  quite  sure  of  him. 
He  had  never  appeared  to  her  to  be  quite  in  ear- 
nest. His  face  showed  no  surprise  now.  He  had 
known  this  all  along,  and  did  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  feign  astonishment.  The  notary  gave  a 
polite,  incredulous,  legal  laugh. 

"  That  is  an  old  story.  Monsieur  le  Comte." 

At  which  point  Susini  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to 


THE  ABBfi'S  SALAD  289 

make  use  of  a  rude  local  method  of  showing  con- 
tempt in  pretending  to  spit  upon  the  notary's 
floor. 

"  It  is  as  old  as  you  please,"  answered  Lory,  half 
turning  toward  Gilbert,  who  in  his  turn  made  a 
gesture  in  the  direction  of  the  notary,  as  if  to  say 
that  the  lawyer  had  received  his  instructions  and 
knew  how  to  act. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  notary  in  a  judicial  voice, 
"  we  are  aware  that  the  conveyance  of  the  Perucca 
estate  by  the  late  Count  de  Yasselot  to  the  late 
Mattel  Perucca  lacked  formality;  many  convey- 
ances in  Corsica  lacked  formality  in  the  beginning 
of  the  century.  In  many  cases  possession  is  the 
only  title-deed.  We  can  point  to  a  possession  last- 
ing over  many  years,  which  carries  the  more 
weight  from  the  fact  that  the  late  count  and  his 
neighbour  Monsieur  Perucca  were  notoriously  on 
bad  terms.  If  the  count  had  been  able,  he  would 
no  doubt  have  evicted  from  Perucca  a  neighbour  so 
uns3''mpathetic." 

"  You  seem,"  said  de  Yasselot,  quickly,  "  to  be 
prepared  for  my  objection." 

The  notary  spread  out  his  hands  in  a  gesture  that 
conveyed  assent. 

"  And  if  I  had  not  come  ?  " 

"  I  regret  to  say.  Monsieur  le  Comte,  that  your 
presence  here  bears  little  upon  the  transaction  in 
hand.  You  are  only  a  witness.  Mademoiselle  will 
no  doubt  complete  the  document  now." 

And  the  notary  again  handed  Denise  a  pen. 


290  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

"  Hardly  upon  a  title-deed  which  consists  of  pos- 
session only." 

"  Pardon  me,  but  you  have  even  less,"  said  the 
notary.  "If  I  may  remind  you  of  it,  you  have 
probably  no  title-deeds  to  Vasselot  itself  since  the 
burning  of  the  chateau." 

"  There  you  are  wrong,"  answered  Lory,  quietly. 
And  the  abbe  snapped  both  fingers  and  thumbs  in 
a  double-barrelled  feu  dejoie. 

"  The  count  may  have  possessed  title-deeds  be- 
fore his  death,  thirty  years  ago,"  said  the  notary, 
with  that  polite  patience  in  argument  which  the 
certain  winner  alone  can  compass. 

Then  the  colonel's  quiet  voice  broke  into  the  con- 
versation. His  manner  was  politely  indifferent,  and 
seemed  to  plead  for  peace  at  any  cost. 

"  I  should  much  like  to  be  done  with  these  formal- 
ities," he  said — "  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  suggest  a 
little  promptitude.  The  troops  are  moving,  as  you 
have  heard.  In  an  hour's  time  I  sail  for  Marseilles 
with  these  men.     Let  us  finish  with  the  signatures." 

"  Let  us,  on  the  contrary,  delay  signing  until  the 
war  is  over,"  suggested  Lory. 

"  You  cannot  bring  your  father  to  life  again, 
monsieur,  and  you  cannot  manufacture  title-deeds. 
Your  father,  the  notary  tells  us,  has  been  dead 
thirty  years,  and  the  Chateau  de  Vasselot  has  been 
burnt  with  all  the  papers  in  it.  You  have  no  case 
at  all." 

Lory  was  unbuttoning  his  tunic,  awkwardly  with 
one  hand. 


THE  ABBfi'S  SALAD  291 

"  But  the  notary  is  wrong,"  he  said.  "  The  Cha- 
teau de  Vasselot  was  burnt,  it  is  true,  but  here  are 
the  title-deeds.  My  father  did  not  die  thirty  years 
ago,  but  yesterday  morning,  in  my  arms." 

Gilbert  smiled  gently.  His  innate  politeness  ob- 
viously forbade  him  to  laugh  at  this  absurd  story. 

"  Then  where  has  he  been  all  these  years  ?  "  he 
inquired  with  a  good-humoured  patience. 

"  In  the  Chateau  de  Yasselot." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  for  a  moment,  broken 
at  length  by  a  movement  on  the  part  of  Mademoi- 
selle Brun.  In  her  abrupt  way  she  struck  herself 
on  the  forehead  as  a  fool. 

"  Yes,"  testified  Susini,  brusquely,  "  that  is  where 
he  has  been." 

Denise  remembered  ever  afterward,  that  Lory 
did  not  look  at  her  at  this  moment  of  his  complete 
justification.  It  was  now,  and  only  for  a  moment, 
that  Colonel  Gilbert  lost  his  steady  imperturbabil- 
ity. From  the  time  that  Lory  de  Vasselot  entered 
the  room  he  had  known  that  he  had  inevitably 
failed.  From  that  instant  the  only  question  in  his 
mind  had  been  that  of  how  much  his  enemies  knew. 
It  could  not  be  chance  that  brought  de  Vasselot, 
and  the  Abbe  Susini,  and  Mademoiselle  Brun  to- 
gether to  meet  him  at  that  time.  He  had  been  out- 
manoeuvred by  some  one  of  the  three,  and  he 
shrewdly  suspected  by  whom.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  face  it — and  he  faced  it  with  a  calm  au- 
dacity. He  simply  ignored  mademoiselle's  blinking 
glance.     He  met  de  Vasselot's  quick  eyes  without 


292  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

fear,  and  smiled  coolly  in  the  abbe's  liery  face. 
But  when  Denise  turned  and  looked  at  him  with 
direct  and  honest  eyes,  his  own  wavered,  and  for  a 
brief  instant  he  saw  himself  as  Denise  saw  him — 
the  bitterest  moment  of  his  life.  The  esteem  of 
the  many  is  nothing  compared  to  the  esteem  of 
one. 

In  a  moment  he  recovered  himself  and  turned  to- 
ward Lory  with  his  lazy  smile. 

"  Even  to  a  romance  there  must  be  some  motive," 
he  said.  "  One  naturally  wonders  why  your  father 
should  allow  his  enemy  to  keep  possession  of  a 
house  and  estate  which  were  not  his,  and  why  he 
himself  should  remain  concealed  in  the  Chateau  de 
Vasselot." 

"  That  is  the  affair  of  my  father.  There  was  that 
between  him  and  Mattel  Perucca,  which  neither 
you  nor  I,  monsieur,  have  any  business  to  investi- 
gate. There  are  the  title-deeds.  You  have  a  cer- 
tain right  to  look  at  them.  You  are  therefore  at 
liberty  to  satisfy  yourself  that  you  cannot  buy  the 
Perucca  estate  from  Mademoiselle  Lange,  because 
it  does  not  belong  to  Mademoiselle  Lange,  and 
never  has  belonged  to  her !  A  fact  of  which  you 
may  have  been  aware." 

"  You  seem  to  know  much." 

"  I  know  more  than  you  suspect,"  answered  de 
Vasselot.  "  I  know,  for  instance,  your  reason  for 
desiring  to  buy  land  on  the  western  slope  of  Monte 
Torre." 

"Ah?" 


THE  ABB:^'S  salad  293 

By  Avay  of  reply,  de  Yasselot  laid  upon,  the  table 
in  front  of  Colonel  Gilbert,  the  nugget  no  larger 
than  a  pigeon's  egg,  that  Mademoiselle  Brun  had 
found  in  the  debris  of  the  landship.  The  colonel 
looked  at  it,  and  gave  a  short  laugh.  He  was  too 
indolent  a  man  to  feel  an  acute  curiosity.  But 
there  were  many  questions  he  would  have  liked  to 
ask  at  that  moment.  He  knew  that  de  Yasselot 
was  only  the  spokesman  of  another  who  deliber- 
ately remained  in  the  background.  Lory  had  not 
found  the  gold,  he  had  not  pieced  together  with 
the  patience  of  a  clocksmith  the  wheels  within 
wheels  that  Colonel  Gilbert  had  constructed  through 
the  careful  years.  The  whole  story  had  been 
handed  to  him  whom  it  most  concerned,  complete 
in  itself  like  a  barrister's  brief,  and  de  Vasselot  was 
not  setting  it  forth  with  much  skill,  but  bluntly, 
simply  and  generously  like  a  soldier. 

"  Surely  I  have  said  enough,"  were  his  next 
words,  and  it  is  possible  that  the  colonel  and  Made- 
moiselle Brun  alone  understood  the  full  meaning  of 
the  words. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,"  said  Gilbert  at  length,  "  I  think 
you  have." 

And  he  moved  toward  the  door  in  an  odd,  side- 
long way.  He  had  taken  only  three  steps,  when  he 
swung  round  on  his  heel  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 
The  Abbe  Susini,  with  blazing  eyes — half  mad  with 
rage — had  flown  at  him  like  a  terrier. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  colonel,  catching  him  by  the  two 
wrists,  and  holding  him  at  arm's  length  with  steady 


294  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

northern  nerve  and  muscle.      "  I  know  you  Corsi- 
cans  too  well  to  turn  my  back  to  one." 

He  threw  the  abbe  back,  so  that  the  little  man 
fell  heavily  against  the  table ;  Susini  recovered  him- 
self with  the  litheness  of  a  wild  animal,  but  when  he 
flew  at  the  closed  door  again  it  was  Denise  who 
stood  in  front  of  it. 


HE    THREW    THE    ABBE    BACK. 


CHAPTER   XXYIII 

GOLD 

"  I  do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 
And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than  doubt." 

All  eyes  were  now  turned  on  the  notary,  who 
was  hurriedly  looking  through  the  papers  thrown 
down  before  him  by  Lory. 

"They  have  passed  through  my  hands  before, 
when  I  was  a  youth,  in  connection  with  a  boundary 
dispute,"  he  said,  as  if  to  explain  his  apparent 
hastiness.  "  They  are  all  here — they  are  correct, 
monsieur." 

He  was  a  very  quick  man,  and  folding  the  papers 
as  he  spoke,  he  tied  them  together  with  the  faded 
pink  tape  which  had  been  fingered  by  three  genera- 
tions of  Vasselots.  He  laid  the  packet  on  the  table 
close  to  Lory's  hand.  Then  he  glanced  at  Denise 
and  fell  into  thought,  arranging  in  his  mind  that 
which  he  had  to  say  to  her. 

"  It  is  one  of  those  cases,  mademoiselle,"  he  said 
at  length,  "  common  enough  in  Corsica,  where  a 
verbal  agreement  has  never  been  confirmed  in 
writing.  Men  who  have  been  friends,  become  ene- 
mies so  easily  in  this  country.  I  cannot  tell  you 
upon  what  terms  Mattel  Perucca  lived  in  the  Casa. 
No  one  can  tell  you  that.     All  that  we  know  is  that 

295 


296  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

we  have  no  title-deeds — and  that  monsieur  has 
them.  The  Casa  may  be  yours,  but  you  cannot 
prove  it.  Such  a  case  tried  in  a  law  court  in  Cor- 
sica would  go  in  favour  of  the  litigant  who  pos- 
sessed the  greater  number  of  friends  in  the  locality. 
It  would  go  in  j'^our  favour  if  it  could  be  tried  here. 
But  it  would  need  to  go  to  France.  And  there  we 
could  only  look  for  justice,  and  justice  is  on  the  side 
of  monsieur." 

He  apologised,  as  it  were,  for  justice,  of  which  he 
made  himself  the  representative  in  that  room. 
Then  he  turned  toward  de  Vasselot. 

"  Monsieur  is   well   within   his  rights "    he 

said,  significantly,  " if  he  insist  on  them." 

"  I  insist  on  them,"  replied  Lory,  who  was  proud 
of  Denise's  pride. 

And  Denise  laughed. 

The  notary  turned  and  looked  curiously  at  her. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  able  to  be  amused." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  Rue  du  Cherche-Midi  in 
Paris,"  she  said,  and  the  explanation  left  the  lawyer 
more  puzzled  than  before.  She  took  up  her  gloves 
and  drew  them  on. 

"  Then  I  am  rendered  penniless,  monsieur  ?  "  she 
asked  the  notary. 

"  By  me,"  answered  Lory.  And  even  the  notary 
was  silent.  It  is  hard  to  silence  a  man  who  lives  by 
his  tongue.  But  there  were  here,  it  seemed,  under- 
standings and  misunderstandings  which  the  lawyer 
failed  to  comprehend. 

The  Abbe  Susini  had  crossed  the  room  and  was 


GOLD  297 

whispering  something  hurriedly  to  Mademoiselle 
Brun,  who  acquiesced  curtly  and  rather  angrily. 
She  had  the  air  of  the  man  at  the  wheel,  to  whom 
one  must  not  speak.  For  she  was  endeavouring 
rather  nervously  to  steer  two  high-sailed  vessels 
through  those  shoals  and  quicksands  that  must  be 
passed  by  all  who  set  out  in  quest  of  love. 

Then  the  abbe  turned  impulsively  to  Lory. 

"  Mademoiselle  must  be  told  about  the  gold — she 
must  be  told,"  he  said. 

"  I  had  forgotten  the  gold,"  answered  Lory,  quite 
truthfully. 

"  You  have  forgotten  everything,  except  the  eyes 
of  mademoiselle,"  the  abbe  muttered  to  himself  as 
he  went  back  to  his  place  near  the  window.  De 
Yasselot  took  up  the  packet  of  papers  and  began  to 
untie  the  tape  awkwardly  with  his  one  able  hand. 
He  was  so  slow  that  Mademoiselle  Brun  leant  for- 
ward and  assisted  him.  Denise  bit  her  lip  and 
pushed  a  chair  toward  him  with  her  foot.  He  sat 
down  and  unfolded  a  map  coloured  and  drawn  in 
queer  angles.  This  he  laid  upon  the  table,  and,  by 
a  gesture,  called  Mademoiselle  Brun  and  Denise  to 
look  at  it.  The  abbe  took  a  pencil  from  the  notary's 
table,  and  after  studying  the  map  for  a  moment  he 
drew  a  careful  circle  in  the  centre  of  it,  embracing 
portions  of  the  various  colours  and  of  the  two  estates 
described  respectively  as  Perucca  and  Vasselot. 

"  That,"  he  said  to  Lory,  "  is  the  probable  radius 
of  it  so  far  as  the  expert  could  tell  me  on  his  ex- 
amination of  the  ground  yesterday." 


298  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

Lory  turned  to  Denise. 

"  You  must  think  us  all  mad — at  our  games  of 
cross-purposes,"  he  said.  *'  It  appears  that  there  is 
gold  in  the  two  estates — and  gold  has  accounted 
for  most  human  madnesses.  Where  the  abbe  has 
drawn  this  line  there  lies  the  gold — beyond  the 
dreams  of  avarice,  mademoiselle.  And  Colonel 
Gilbert  was  the  only  man  who  knew  it.  So  you 
understand  Gilbert,  at  all  events." 

"  You  did  not  know  it  when  I  asked  your  advice 
in  Paris  ?  " 

"  I  learnt  it  two  hours  ago  from  the  Abbe  Susini ; 
so  I  hastened  here  to  claim  the  whole  of  it,"  an- 
swered Lory,  with  a  laugh. 

But  Denise  was  grave. 

"  But  you  knew  that  Perucca  was  never  mine," 
she  persisted. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  that,  but  then  Perucca  was  value- 
less.    So  soon  as  I  knew  its  value,  I  reclaimed  it." 

"  I  warn  Monsieur  de  Vasselot  that  such  frank- 
ness is  imprudent ;  he  may  regret  it,"  put  in  the 
notary  with  a  solemn  face.  And  Denise  gave  him 
a  glance  of  withering  pity.  The  poor  man,  it 
seemed,  was  quite  at  sea. 

"Thank  you,"  laughed  de  Vasselot.  "I  only 
judge  myself  as  the  world  will  judge  me.  You 
were  very  rich,  mademoiselle,  and  I  have  made 
you  very  poor." 

Denise  glanced  at  him,  and  said  nothing.  And 
de  Vasselot's  breath  came  rather  quickly. 

"  But  the  Casa  Perucca  is  at  your  disposal  so 


GOLD  299 

long  as  you  may  choose  to  live  there,"  he  contin- 
ued. "My  father  is  to  be  buried  at  Olmeta  to- 
morrow, but  I  cannot  even  remain  to  attend  the 
funeral.  So  I  need  not  assure  you  that  I  do  not 
want  the  Casa  Perucca  for  myself." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  Denise  bluntly. 

"  Back  to  France.  I  have  heard  news  that 
makes  it  necessary  for  me  to  return.  Gambetta 
has  escaped  from  Paris  in  a  balloon,  and  is  organ- 
ising affairs  at  Tours.  We  may  yet  make  a  de- 
fence." 

"  You  ?  "  said  Mademoiselle  Brun.  Into  the  one 
word  she  threw,  or  attempted  to  throw,  a  world  of 
contempt,  as  she  looked  him  up  and  down,  with  his 
arm  in  a  sling,  and  his  wounded  leg  bent  awk- 
wardly to  one  side ;  but  her  eyes  glittered.  This 
was  a  man  after  her  own  heart. 

"  One  has  one's  head  left,  mademoiselle,"  an- 
swered Lory.  Then  he  turned  to  the  window,  and 
held  up  one  hand.     "  Listen  !  "  he  added. 

It  was  the  music  of  a  second  regiment  marching 
down  the  Boulevard  du  Palais,  toward  the  port, 
and,  as  it  approached,  it  was  rendered  almost  in- 
audible by  the  shouts  of  the  men  themselves,  and 
of  the  crowd  that  cheered  them.  De  Vasselot 
went  to  the  window,  and  opened  it,  his  face  twitch- 
ing, and  his  eyes  shining  with  excitement. 

"Listen  to  them,"  he  said.  "Listen  to  them. 
Ah !  but  it  is  good  to  hear  them." 

Instinctively  the  others  followed  him,  and  stood 
grouped  in  the  open  window,  looking  down  into 


300  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

the  street.  The  band  was  now  passing,  clanging 
out  the  Marseillaise,  and  the  fickle  people  cheered 
the  new  tricolour,  as  it  fluttered  in  the  wind. 
Some  one  looked  up,  and  perceived  de  Vasselot's 
uniform. 

"  Come,  mon  capitaine,"  he  cried ;  "  you  are  com- 
ing with  us  ?  " 

Lory  laughed,  and  shouted  back  — 

"  Yes — I  am  coming." 

"  See,"  cried  a  sergeant,  who  was  gathering  re- 
cruits as  he  went — "  see !  there  is  one  who  has 
fought,  and  is  going  to  fight  again  !  Yive  la  France, 
mes  enfants  !     Who  comes  ?     Who  comes  ?  " 

And  the  soldiers,  looking  up,  gave  a  cheer  for 
the  wounded  man  who  was  to  lead  them.  They 
passed  on,  followed  by  a  troup  of  young  men  and 
boys,  half  of  whom  ultimately  stepped  on  board 
the  steamer  at  the  last  moment,  and  went  across 
the  sea  to  fight  for  France. 

De  Vasselot  turned  away  from  the  window,  and 
went  toward  the  table,  where  the  papers  lay  in  con- 
fusion. The  abbe  took  them  up,  and  began  to  ar- 
range them  in  order. 

"And  the  estate  and  the  gold?"  he  said;  "who 
manages  that,  since  you  are  going  to  fight  ?  " 

"You,"  replied  de  Yasselot,  "since  you  cannot 
fight.  There  is  no  one  but  you  in  Corsica  who  can 
manage  it.  There  is  none  but  you  to  understand 
these  people." 

"All  the  world  knows  who  manages  half  of 
Corsica,"    put     in     Mademoiselle     Brun,    looking 


GOLD  301 

fiercely  at  the  abbe.  But  the  abbe  only  stamped 
his  foot  impatiently. 

"  Woman's  gossip,"  he  muttered,  as  he  shook  the 
papers  to^'ether.  "  Yes ;  I  will  manage  your  estate 
if  you  like.  And  if  there  is  gold  in  the  land,  I  will 
tear  it  out.  And  there  is  gold.  The  amiable 
colonel  is  not  the  man  to  have  made  a  mistake  on 
that  point.  I  shall  like  the  work.  It  will  be  an 
occupation.     It  will  serve  to  fill  one's  life." 

"  Your  life  is  not  empty,"  said  mademoiselle. 

The  abbe  turned  and  looked  at  her,  his  glittering 
eyes  meeting  her  twinkling  glance. 

"  It  is  a  priest's  life,"  he  said.  "  Come,"  he  added, 
turning  to  the  lawyer — "  come,  Mr.  the  Notary,  into 
your  other  room,  and  write  me  out  a  form  of  au- 
thority for  the  Count  de  Vasselot  to  sign.  We  have 
had  enough  of  verbal  agreements  on  this  estate." 

And,  taking  the  notary  by  the  arm,  he  went  to 
the  door.  On  the  threshold  he  turned,  and  looked 
at  Mademoiselle  Brun. 

"  A  priest's  life,"  he  said,  "  or  an  old  woman's. 
It  is  the  same  thing." 

And  Lory  was  left  alone  with  mademoiselle  and 
Denise.  The  window  was  still  open,  and  from  the 
port  the  sound  of  the  military  music  reached  their 
ears  faintly.  Mademoiselle  rose,  and  went  to  the 
window,  where  she  stood  looking  out.  Her  eyes 
were  dim  as  she  looked  across  the  sordid  street,  but 
her  lips  were  firm,  and  the  hands  that  rested  on  the 
window-sill  quite  steady.  She  had  played  consist- 
ently a  strong  and  careful  game.     AVas  she  going 


302  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

to  win  or  lose  ?  She  held  that,  next  to  being  a  sol- 
dier, it  is  good  to  be  a  soldier's  wife  and  the  mother 
of  fighting  men.  And  when  she  thought  of  the 
E-ue  du  Cherche-Midi,  she  was  not  able  to  be  amused, 
as  the  notary  had  said  of  Denise. 

There  was  a  short  silence  in  the  notary's  office. 
De  Vasselot  was  fingering  the  hilt  of  his  long  cav- 
alry sword  reflectively.  After  a  moment  he  glanced 
across  at  Denise.  He  was  placed  as  it  were  between 
her  and  the  sword.  And  it  was  to  the  sword  that 
he  gave  his  allegiance. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  must 
go." 

"  Yes,  you  must  go,"  she  answered.  She  held  her 
lip  for  a  moment  between  her  teeth.  Then  she 
looked  steadily  at  him.     "  Go  !  "  she  said. 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  looked  toward  Made- 
moiselle Brun's  back.  At  the  rattle  of  his  scabbard 
against  the  chair,  mademoiselle  turned. 

"  There  is  a  horse  waiting  in  the  street  below," 
she  said — "the  great  horse  that  Colonel  Gilbert 
rides.     It  is  waiting  for  you,  I  suppose." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Lory,  who  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  looked  curiously  down.  Gilbert  was  cer- 
tainly an  odd  man.  He  had  left  in  anger,  and  had 
left  his  horse  for  Lory  to  ride.  He  waited  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  held  out  his  hand  to  Mademoiselle 
Brun.  All  three  seemed  to  move  and  speak  under 
a  sort  of  oppression.  It  was  one  of  those  moments 
that  impress  themselves  indelibly  on  the  memory — 
a  moment  when  words  are  suddenly  useless — when 


GOLD  303 

the  memory  of  an  attitude  and  of  a  silence  remains 
all  through  life. 

"  Good-bye,  mademoiselle,"  said  Lory,  with  a  sud- 
den cheerfulness ;  "  we  shall  meet  in  France  next 
time." 

Mademoiselle  Brun  held  out  her  shrinking  little 
hand. 

"  Yes,  in  France,"  she  answered. 

To  Denise,  Lory  said  nothing.  He  merely  shook 
hands  with  her.  Then  he  walked  toward  the  door, 
haltingly.  He  used  his  sword  like  a  walking  stick, 
with  his  one  able  hand.  Denise  had  to  open  the 
door  for  him.  He  was  on  the  threshold,  when 
Mademoiselle  Brun  stopped  him. 

"  Monsieur  de  Vasselot,"  she  said,  "  when  the  sol- 
diers went  past,  you  and  Colonel  Gilbert  spoke  to- 
gether hurriedly ;  I  saw  you.  You  are  not  going 
to  fight — you  two  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mademoiselle,  we  are  going  to  fight — the 
Prussians.  We  are  friends  while  we  have  a  com- 
mon enemy.  "When  there  is  no  enemy — who  knows  ? 
He  has  received  a  great  appointment  in  France,  and 
has  offered  me  a  post  under  him.  And  I  have  ac- 
cepted it." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A  BALANCED   ACCOUNT 

"  Let  the  end  try  the  man." 

Bad  news,  it  is  said,  travels  fast.  But  in  France 
good  news  travels  faster,  and  it  is  the  evil  tidings 
that  lag  behind.  It  is  part  of  a  Frenchman's  happy- 
nature  to  believe  that  which  he  wishes  to  be  true. 
And  although  the  news  travelled  rapidly,  that  Gam- 
betta — that  spirit  of  an  unquenchable  hope — had 
escaped  from  Paris  with  full  power  to  conduct  the 
war  from  Tours,  the  notification  that  the  army  of 
de  la  Motteroiige  had  melted  away  before  the  ad- 
vance of  von  der  Tann,  did  not  reach  Lory  de  Vas- 
selot  until  he  passed  to  the  north  of  Marseilles  with 
his  handful  of  men. 

That  a  general,  so  stricken  in  years  as  de  la  Mot- 
terouge,  should  have  been  chosen  for  the  command 
of  the  first  army  of  the  Loire,  spoke  eloquently 
enough  of  the  straits  in  which  France  found  herself 
at  this  time.  For  this  was  the  only  army  of  the 
Government  of  National  Defence,  the  dehris  of 
Sedan,  the  hope  of  France.  General  de  la  Motte- 
rouge  had  fought  in  the  Crimea :  "  Peu  de  feu  et 
beaucoup  de  bayonette  "  had  been  his  maxim  then. 
But  the  Crimea  was  fifteen  years  earlier,  and  de  la 
Motterouge  was  now  an  old  man.     Before  the  su- 

304 


A  BALANCED  ACCOUNT  305 

perior  numbers  and  the  perfectly  drilled  and  equipped 
army  of  von  der  Tann,  what  could  he  do  but  re- 
treat ? 

Thus,  on  their  arrival  in  France,  Colonel  Gilbert 
and  Lory  de  Vasselot  were  greeted  with  the  news 
that  Orleans  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the 
enemy.  It  was  the  same  story  of  incompetence 
pitted  against  perfect  organisation — order  and  dis- 
cipline meeting  and  vanquishing  ill-considered 
bravery.  All  the  world  knows  now  that  France 
should  have  capitulated  after  Sedan.  But  the 
world  knows  also  that  Paris  need  never  have 
fallen,  could  France  only  have  produced  one 
mediocre  military  genius  in  this  her  moment  of 
need.  The  capital  was  indeed  surrounded,  cut  off 
from  all  the  world ;  but  the  surrounding  line  was 
so  thin  that  good  generalship  from  within  could 
have  pierced  it,  and  there  was  an  eager  army  of 
brave  men  waiting  to  join  issue  from  the  Loire. 

It  was  to  this  army  of  the  Loire  that  Colonel 
Gilbert  and  de  Vasselot  were  accredited.  And  it 
was  an  amateur  army.  It  came  from  every  part 
of  France,  and  in  its  dress  it  ran  to  the  picturesque. 
Franctireurs  de  Cannes  rubbed  shoulders  with 
Mobiles  from  the  far  northern  departments. 
Spahis  and  Zouaves  from  Africa  bivouacked  with 
fair-haired  men  whose  native  tongue  was  German. 
There  were  soldiers  who  had  followed  the  drum  all 
their  lives,  and  there  were  soldiers  who  did  not 
know  how  to  load  their  chassepots.  There  were 
veteran  non-commissioned  officers  hurriedly  drilling 


306  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

embryo  priests ;  and  young  gentlemen  from  St. 
Cyr  trying  to  form  in  line  grey-headed  peasants 
who  wore  sabots.  There  were  fancy  soldiers  and 
picturesque  fighters,  who  joined  a  regiment  because 
its  costume  appealed  to  their  conception  of  patriot- 
ism. And  if  a  man  prefers  to  fight  for  his  country 
in  the  sombrero  and  cloak  of  a  comic-opera  brigand, 
what  boots  it  is  so  long  as  he  fights  well  ?  It  must 
be  remembered,  moreover,  that  it  is  quite  as  painful 
to  die  under  a  sombrero  as  under  a  plainer  cover- 
ing. A  man  who  wefars  such  clothes  sees  the 
picturesque  side  of  life,  and  may  therefore  hold 
existence  as  dear  as  more  practical  persons  who 
take  little  heed  of  their  appearance.  For  when  the 
time  came  these  gentlemen  fought  well  enough, 
and  ruined  their  picturesque  get-up  with  their  own 
blood.  And  if  they  shouted  very  loud  in  the  cafe, 
the}''  shouted,  Heaven  knows,  as  loud  on  the  battle- 
field, when  they  faced  those  hated,  deadly,  steady 
Bavarians,  and  died  shouting. 

Of  such  material  was  the  army  of  the  Loire ; 
and  when  Chanzy  came  to  them  from  North  Africa 
— that  Punjaub  of  this  stricken  India  from  whence 
the  strong  men  came  when  they  were  wanted — 
when  Chanzy  came  to  lead  them,  they  commanded 
the  respect  of  all  the  world.  For  these  were  men 
fighting  a  losing  fight,  without  hope  of  victory,  for 
the  honour  of  France.  They  fought  with  a  deadlj'- 
valour  against  superior  numbers  behind  entrench- 
ments ;  they  endeavoured  to  turn  the  Germans  out 
of  insignificant  villages  after  allowing  them  time  to 


A  BALANCED  ACCOUNT  307 

fortify  the  position.  They  fought  in  the  open 
against  an  invisible  enemy  superior  in  numbers, 
superior  in  artillery,  and  here  and  there  they  gained 
a  pitiful  little  hard-earned  advantage. 

De  Vasselot,  still  unable  to  go  to  the  front,  was 
put  to  train  these  men  in  a  little  quiet  town  on  the 
Loire,  where  he  lodged  with  a  shoemaker,  and 
worked  harder  than  any  man  in  that  sunny  place 
had  ever  worked  before.  It  was  his  business  to 
gather  together  such  men  as  could  sit  a  horse,  and 
teach  them  to  be  cavalry  soldiers.  But  first  of  all  he 
taught  them  that  the  horse  was  an  animal  possess- 
ing possibilities  far  beyond  their  most  optimistic 
conception  of  that  sagacious  but  foolish  quadruped. 
He  taught  them  a  hundred  tricks  of  heel  and  wrist, 
by  which  a  man  may  convey  to  a  horse  that  which 
he  wishes  him  to  do.  He  made  the  horse  and  the 
man  understand  each  other,  and  when  they  did  this 
he  sent  them  to  the  front. 

In  the  meantime  France  fed  herself  upon  false 
news,  and  magnified  small  successes  into  great 
victories.  Gambetta  made  many  eloquent  speeches, 
and  issued  fiery  manifestoes  to  the  soldiers ;  but 
speeches  and  manifestoes  do  not  win  battles.  Paris 
hoped  all  things  of  the  army  of  the  Loire,  and  the 
army  of  the  Loire  expected  a  successful  sortie  from 
Paris.  And  those  men  of  iron,  Bismarck,  Moltke, 
and  the  emperor,  sat  at  Versailles  and  waited. 
While  they  waited  the  winter  came. 

De  Yasselot,  who  had  daily  attempted  to  use  his 
wounded   limbs,   at  length   found   himself  fit  for 


308  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

active  service,  and  got  permission  to  join  the  army. 
Gilbert  was  no  longer  a  colonel.  He  was  a  general 
now,  and  commanded  a  division  which  had  already 
made  its  mark  upon  that  man  of  misfortune — von 
der  Tann,  a  great  soldier  with  no  luck. 

One  frosty  morning  de  Vasselot  rode  out  of  the 
little  town  upon  the  Loire  at  the  head  of  a  handful 
of  his  newly  trained  men.  He  was  going  to  take 
up  his  appointment :  for  he  held  the  command  of 
the  whole  of  the  cavalry  of  General  Gilbert's  divi- 
sion. These  were  days  of  quick  promotion,  of 
comet-like  reputations,  and  of  great  careers  cut 
short.  De  Vasselot  had  written  to  Jane  de  Melide 
the  previous  night,  telling  her  of  his  movements  in 
the  immediate  future,  of  his  promotion,  of  his 
hopes.  One  hope  which  he  did  not  mention  was 
that  Denise  might  be  at  Frejus,  and  w^ould  see  the 
letter.  Indeed,  it  was  written  to  Denise,  though  it 
was  addressed  to  the  Baronne  de  Melide. 

Then  he  went  blithely  enough  out  to  fight.  For 
he  was  quite  a  simple  person,  as  many  soldiers  and 
many  horse-lovers  are.  He  was  also  that  which 
is  vaguely  called  a  sportsman,  and  was  ready  to 
take  a  legitimate  risk  not  only  cheerfully,  but  with 

joy. 

"  It  is  my  only  chance  of  maldng  her  care  for 
me,"  he  said  to  himself.  He  may  have  been  right 
or  wrong.  There  is  a  wisdom  which  is  the  exclusive 
possession  of  the  simple.  And  Lory  may  have 
known  that  it  is  wiser  to  store  up  in  a  woman's 
mind  memories  that  will  bear  honour  and  respect  in 


A  BALANCED  ACCOUNT  309 

the  future,  than  to  make  appeal  to  her  vanity  in  the 
present.  For  the  love  that  is  won  by  vanity  is  it- 
self vanity. 

He  said  he  was  fighting  for  France,  but  it  was 
also  for  Denise  that  he  fought.  France  and  Denise 
had  got  inextricably  mixed  in  his  mind,  and  both 
spelt  honour.  His  only  method  of  making  Denise 
love  him  was  to  make  himself  worthy  of  her — an 
odd,  old-fashioned  theory  of  action,  and  the  only 
one  that  enables  two  people  to  love  each  other  all 
their  lives. 

In  this  spirit  he  joined  the  army  of  the  Loire 
before  his  wounds  had  healed.  He  did  not  know 
that  Denise  loved  him  already,  that  she  had  with  a 
woman's  instinct  divined  in  him  the  spirit,  quite 
apart  from  the  opportunity,  to  do  great  things. 
And  most  men  have  to  content  themselves  with 
being  loved  for  this  spirit  and  not  for  the  perform 
ance  which,  somehow,  is  so  seldom  accomplished. 

And  that  which  kept  them  apart  was  for  their 
further  happiness ;  it  Avas  even  for  the  happiness  of 
Denise  in  case  Lor}'-  never  came  back  to  her.  For 
the  majority  of  people  get  what  they  want  before 
they  have  learnt  to  desire.  It  is  only  the  lives 
of  the  few  which  are  taken  in  hand  and  so  fash- 
ioned that  there  is  a  waiting  and  an  attainment  at 
last. 

Lory  and  Denise  were  exploring  roads  which  few 
are  called  upon  to  tread — dark  roads  with  mud  and 
stones  and  many  turnings,  and  each  has  a  separate 
road  to  tread  and  must  find  the  way  alone.     But  if 


310  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

Fate  is  kind  they  may  meet  at  the  end  without 
having  gone  astray,  or,  which  is  rarer,  without 
being  spattered  by  the  mud.  For  those  mud-stains 
will  never  rub  off  and  never  be  forgotten.  Which 
is  a  hard  saying,  but  a  true  one. 

Lory  had  left  Denise  without  any  explanation  of 
these  things.  He  had  never  thought  of  sparing  her 
by  the  simple  method  of  neglecting  his  obvious 
duty.  In  his  mind  she  was  the  best  of  God's 
creations — a  woman  strong  to  endure.  That  was 
sufficient  for  him  ;  and  he  turned  his  attention  to  his 
horses  and  his  men.  He  never  saw  the  background 
to  his  own  life.  It  is  usually  the  onlooker  who  sees 
that,  just  as  a  critic  sees  more  in  a  picture  that  the 
painter  ever  put  there. 

Lory  hardly  knew  of  these  questions  himself. 
He  only  half  thought  of  them,  and  Denise,  far 
away  in  Provence,  thought  the  other  half.  Which 
is  love. 

Lory  took  part  in  the  fighting  after  Orleans  and 
risked  his  life  freely,  as  he  ever  did  when  oppor- 
tunity offered.  He  was  more  than  an  officer,  he 
was  a  leader.  And  it  is  better  to  show  the  way 
than  to  point  it  out.  Although  his  orders  came 
from  General  Gilbert,  he  had  never  met  his  com- 
manding officer  since  quitting  the  little  sunny  town 
on  the  Loire  where  he  had  recovered  from  his 
wounds.  It  was  only  after  Chateaudun  and  after 
the  Coulmiers  that  they  met,  and  it  was  only  in  a 
small  affair  after  all,  the  attempted  recapture  of  a 
village  taken  and  hurriedly  fortified  by  the  Germans. 


A  BALANCED  ACCOUNT  311 

It  was  a  night-attack.  The  army  of  the  Loire  was 
rather  fond  of  night-fighting ;  for  the  night  equalises 
matters  between  discipline  and  mere  bravery.  Also, 
if  your  troops  are  bad,  they  may  as  well  be  beaten 
in  the  dark  as  in  the  daylight.  The  survivors  come 
away  with  a  better  heart.  Also,  discipline  is  robbed 
of  half  its  strength  by  the  absence  of  daylight. 

Cavalry,  it  is  known,  are  no  good  at  night ;  for 
horses  are  nervous  and  will  whinny  to  friend  or  foe 
when  silence  is  imperative.  And  yet  Lory  received 
orders  to  take  part  in  this  night-attack.  Stranger 
things  than  that  were  ordered  and  carried  out  in 
the  campaign  on  the  Loire.  All  the  rules  of  war- 
fare were  outraged,  and  those  warriors  who  win 
and  lose  battles  on  paper  cannot  explain  many  bat- 
tles that  were  lost  and  won  during  that  winter. 

There  was  a  moon,  and  the  ground  was  thinly 
covered  with  snow.  It  was  horribly  cold  when  the 
men  turned  out  and  silently  rode  to  the  spot  indi- 
cated in  the  orders.  These  were  quite  clear,  and 
they  meant  death.  De  Vasselot  had  practically  to 
lead  a  forlorn  hope.  A  fellow-officer  laughed  when 
the  instructions  were  read  to  him. 

"  The  general  must  be  an  enemy  of  yours," 
he  said.  And  the  thought  had  not  occurred  to 
Lory  before. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  he  is  a  sportsman." 

"It  is  poor  sport  for  us,"  muttered  the  officer, 
riding  away. 

But  Lory  was  right.  For  when  the  moment 
came  and  he  was  waiting  with  his  troopers  behind  a 


312  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

farm-building,  a  scout  rode  in  to  say  that  reinforce- 
ments were  coming.  As  these  rode  across  the  open 
in  the  moonlight,  it  was  apparent  that  they  were 
not  numerous ;  for  cavalry  was  scarce  since  Keich- 
shofen.  They  were  led  by  a  man  on  a  big  horse, 
who  was  comfortably  muffled  up  in  a  great  fur- 
coat. 

"De  Vasselot,"  he  said  in  a  pleasant  voice,  as 
Lory  went  forward  to  meet  him.  "  De  Vasselot,  I 
have  brought  a  few  more  to  help  you.  We  must 
make  a  great  splash  on  this  side,  while  the  real 
attack  is  on  the  other.  We  must  show  them  the 
way — you  and  I."    And  Gilbert  laughed  quietly. 

It  was  not  the  moment  for  greetings.  Lory  gave 
a  few  hurried  orders  in  a  low  voice,  and  the  new- 
comers fell  into  line.  They  were  scarcely  in  place 
when  the  signal  was  given.  A  moment  later  they 
were  galloping  across  the  open  toward  the  village 
— a  sight  to  lift  any  heart  above  the  thought  of 
death. 

Then  the  fire  opened — a  flash  of  flame  like  fork- 
lightning  running  along  the  ground — a  crashing 
volley  which  mowed  the  assailants  like  a  scythe. 
Lory  and  Gilbert  were  both  down,  side  by  side. 
Lory,  active  as  a  cat,  was  on  his  legs  in  a  moment 
and  leapt  away  from  the  flying  heels  of  his  wounded 
horse.  A  second  volley  blazed  into  the  night,  and 
Lory  dropped  a  second  time.  He  moved  a  little, 
and  cursed  his  luck.  With  difficulty  he  raised  him- 
self on  his  elbow. 

"  Gilbert,"  he  said,  "  Gilbert." 


A  BALANCED  ACCOUNT  313 

He  dragged  himself  toward  the  general,  who  was 
lying  on  his  back. 

"  Gilbert,"  he  said,  with  his  mouth  close  to  the 
other's  ear,  "  we  should  have  been  friends,  you 
know,  all  the  same,  but  the  luck  was  against  us.  It 
is  not  for  one  to  judge  the  other.  Do  you  hear? 
Do  you  hear  ?  " 

Gilbert  lay  quite  still,  staring  at  the  moon  with 
his  easy,  contemplative  smile.  His  right  arm  was 
raised  and  his  great  sabre  held  aloft  to  show  the 
way,  as  he  had  promised,  now  pointed  silently  to 
heaven. 

Lory  raised  himself  again,  the  blood  running 
down  his  sleeve  over  his  right  hand. 

"  Gilbert,"  he  repeated,  "  do  you  understand  ?  " 

Then  he  fell  unconscious  across  the  general's 
breast. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE    BEGINNING   AND   THE   END 

"  I  gave — no  matter  what  I  gave — I  win." 

The  careful  student  will  find  in  the  back  num- 
bers of  the  Deutsche  Rundschau^  that  excellent 
family  magazine,  the  experiences  of  a  German  mili- 
tary doctor  with  the  army  of  General  von  der 
Tann.  The  story  is  one  touched  by  that  deep  and 
occasionally  maudlin  spirit  of  sentimentality  which 
finds  a  home  in  hearts  that  beat  for  the  Fatherland. 
Its  most  thrilling  page  is  the  description  of  the 
finding,  by  the  narrator,  of  the  body  of  a  general 
officer  during  a  sharp  night  engagement,  across 
which  body  was  lying  a  wounded  cavalry  colonel, 
who  had  evidently  devoted  himself  to  the  defence 
of  his  comrade  in  arms. 

The  reminiscent  doctor  makes  good  use  of  such 
compound  words  as  "  brother-love  "  and  "  though- 
superior  -  in  -  rank-yet-comrade-in  -  arms-and-compan- 
ions-in-death-affectionate,"  which  linguistic  facility 
enables  the  German  writer  to  build  up  as  he  pro- 
gresses in  his  narration  words  of  a  phenomenal  cali- 
bre, and  bowl  the  reader  over,  so  to  speak,  at  a  long 
range.  He  finishes  by  mentioning  that  the  general 
was  named  Gilbert,  a  man  of  colossal  engineering 

314 


THE  BEGINNmG  AND  THE  END    315 

skill,  while  the  wounded  officer  was  the  Count  Lory 
de  Vasselot,  grandson  of  one  of  Napoleon's  most 
dashing  cavalry  leaders.  The  doctor  finishes  right 
there,  as  the  Americans  say,  and  quite  forgets  to 
note  the  fact  that  he  himself  picked  up  de  Vasselot 
under  a  spitting  cross-fire,  carried  him  into  his  own 
field  hospital  and  there  tended  him.  Which  omis- 
sion proves  that  to  find  a  brave  and  kind  heart  it  is 
not  necessary  to  consider  what  outer  uniform  may 
cover,  or  gutteral  tongue  distinguish,  the  inner 
man. 

Lory  was  shot  in  two  places  again,  and  the  doc- 
tors who  attended  him  laughed  when  they  saw  the 
old  wounds  hardly  yet  healed.  He  would  be  lame 
for  years  they  said,  perhaps  for  life.  He  had  a  bul- 
let in  his  right  shoulder  and  another  had  shattered 
his  ankle.  Neither  was  dangerous,  but  his  fighting 
days  were  done,  at  all  events  for  this  campaign. 

"  You  will  not  fight  against  us  again,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  a  smile  on  his  broad  Saxon  features, 
and  in  execrable  French,  which  was  not  improved 
by  the  scissors  that  he  held  between  his  lips. 

"  Not  in  this  war,  perhaps,"  answered  the  patient, 
hopefully. 

Again  the  tide  of  war  moved  on  ;  and,  daily,  the 
cold  increased.  But  its  chill  was  nothing  to  that 
cold,  slow  death  of  hope  that  numbed  all  France. 
For  it  became  momentarily  more  apparent  that 
those  at  the  head  of  affairs  were  incompetent — that 
the  man  upon  whom  hope  had  been  placed  was 
nothing  but  a  talker,  a  man  of  words,  an  orator,  a 


316  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

wind-bag.  France,  who  has  usually  led  the  way  in 
the  world's  progress,  had  entered  upon  that  period 
of  words — that  Age  of  Talk — in  which  she  still  la- 
bours, and  which  must  inevitably  be  the  ruin  of  all 
her  greatness. 

For  two  weeks  Lory  lay  in  the  improvised  Ger- 
man field  hospital  in  that  remote  village,  and  made 
the  astounding  progress  toward  recovery  which  is 
the  happy  privilege  of  the  light-hearted.  It  is  said 
among  soldiers  that  a  foe  is  no  longer  a  foe  when 
he  is  down,  and  de  Yasselot  found  himself  among 
friends. 

The  German  doctor  wrote  a  letter  for  him. 

"  It  will  be  good  practice  for  my  French,"  said 
the  artless  Teuton,  quite  frankly.  And  the  letter 
was  sent,  but  never  reached  its  destination.  Lory 
could  learn  no  news,  however.  In  war  there  are, 
not  two,  but  three  sides  to  a  question.  Each  com- 
batant has  one,  and  Truth  has  the  third,  which  she 
often  locks  up  forever  in  her  quiet  breast. 

At  last,  one  morning  quite  early,  a  horseman  dis- 
mounted at  the  door  of  the  house  in  the  village 
street,  where  the  hospital  flag  hung  lazily  in  the 
still,  frosty  air. 

"  It  is  a  civilian,"  said  an  attendant,  in  astonish- 
ment, so  rare  was  the  sight  of  a  plain  coat  at  this 
time.  There  followed  a  conversation  in  muffled 
voices  in  the  entrance  hall ;  not  a  French  conversa- 
tion in  many  tones  of  voice — but  a  quiet  Teutonic 
talk  as  between  Germans  and  Englishmen.  Then 
the  door  opened,  and  a  man  came  into  the  room,  re- 


THE  BEGINNING  AND  THE  END    317 

moving  a  fur  coat  as  he  came.  He  was  a  tall,  im- 
passive man,  well  dressed,  wearing  a  tweed  suit  and 
a  single  eye-glass.  He  might  have  been  an  English- 
man. He  was,  however,  the  Baron  de  Melide,  and 
his  manner  had  that  repose  which  belongs  to  the 
new  aristocracy  of  France  and  to  the  shreds  that 
remain,  here  and  there,  of  the  old. 

"Left  my  ambulance  to  subordinates,"  he  ex- 
plained as  he  shook  Lory's  hand.  "  Humanity  is 
an  excellent  quality,  but  one's  friends  come  first. 
It  has  taken  me  some  time  to  find  you.  Have  pro- 
cured your  parole  for  you.  You  are  quite  useless, 
they  say," — the  baron  eyed  Lory  with  a  calm  and 
experienced  glance  as  he  spoke — "so  they  release 
you  on  parole.  They  are  not  generous,  but  they 
have  an  enormous  common  sense." 

The  doctor,  who  understood  French,  laughed 
good-naturedly,  and  the  baron  twisted  his  waxed 
moustache  and  looked  slightly  uncomfortable.  He 
was  conscious  of  having  said  the  wrong  thing  as 
usual. 

And  all  the  while  de  Vasselot  was  talking  and 
laughing,  and  commenting  on  his  friend's  appear- 
ance and  clothes,  and  goodness  of  heart — all  in  a 
breath,  as  was  his  manner.  Also  he  found  time  to 
ask  a  hundred  questions  which  the  stupid  would 
take  at  least  a  week  to  answer,  but  his  answer  to 
each  would  be  the  right  one. 

It  was  during  the  great  cold  of  the  early  days  of 
January,  that  the  baron  and  Lory  turned  their 
backs  on  that  bitter  valley  of  the  Loire.     They  had 


318  THE  ISLE  OF  UNREST 

a  cross-journey  to  Lyons,  and  there  joined  a  main 
line  train,  in  which  they  fell  asleep  to  awake  in  the 
brilliant  sunshine,  amid  the  cool  grey -greens,  the 
bare  rocks  and  dark  cypresses  of  the  south.  After 
Marseilles  the  journey  became  tedious  again. 

"  Heavens !  "  cried  Lory,  impatiently,  "  what  a 
delay  !  Why  need  they  stop  at  this  little  station 
at  all?" 

The  baron  made  no  reply  just  then.  The  train 
travelled  five  miles  while  he  stared  thoughtfully  at 
the  grey  hills.  It  was  six  months  since  he  had  seen 
the  vivacious  lady  who  was  supposed  by  this  one- 
eyed  world  to  rule  him. 

"  After  all,"  he  said  at  length,  "  Frejus  is  a  little 
station." 

For  the  baron  was  a  philosopher. 

When  at  last  they  reached  the  quiet  tree-grown 
station,  where  even  to  this  day  so  few  trains  stop, 
and  so  insignificant  a  business  is  transacted,  they 
found  the  Baroness  de  Melide  on  the  platform 
awaiting  them.  She  was  in  black,  as  were  all 
Frenchwomen  at  this  time.  She  gave  an  odd  little 
laugh  at  the  sight  of  her  husband,  and  immediately 
held  her  lip  between  her  teeth,  as  if  she  were  afraid 
that  her  laugh  might  change  to  something  else. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  "  how  hungry  you  both  look — 
and  yet  you  must  have  lunched  at  Toulon." 

She  looked  curiously  from  one  drawn  face  to  the 
other  as  the  baron  helped  Lory  to  descend. 

"  Hungry,"  she  repeated  with  a  reflective  nod. 
"  Perhaps  your  precious  France  does  not  satisfy." 


THE  BEGINNING  AND  THE  END     319 

And  as  she  led  the  way  to  the  carriage  tliere  was 
a  gleam,  almost  fierce,  of  triumph  in  her  eyes. 

The  arrival  at  the  chateau  was  uneventful.  Ma- 
demoiselle Brun  said  no  word  at  all ;  but  stood  a 
little  aside  with  folded  hands  and  watched.  Denise, 
young  and  slim  in  her  black  dress,  shook  hands  and 
said  that  she  was  afraid  the  travellers  must  be  tired 
after  their  long  journey. 

"  AVhy  should  Denise  think  that  I  was  tired  ?  " 
the  baron  inquired  later,  as  he  was  opening  his  let- 
ters in  the  study. 

"  Mon  ami,"  replied  the  baroness,  "  she  did  not 
think  you  were  tired,  and  did  not  care  whether  you 
were  or  not." 

Lory  had  the  same  room  assigned  to  him  that 
opened  on  to  the  verandah  where  heliotrope  and 
roses  and  Bougainvilliers  contended  for  the  mastery. 
Outside  his  windows  were  placed  the  same  table 
and  long  chair,  and  beside  the  last  the  other  chair 
where  Denise  had  sat — which  had  been  placed  there 
by  Fate.  The  butler  was,  it  appeared,  a  man  of 
few  ideas.  He  had  arranged  everything  as  be- 
fore. 

After  his  early  coffee  Lory  went  to  the  verandah 
and  lay  down  by  that  empty  chair.  It  was  a 
brilliant  morning,  with  a  light  keen  air  which  has 
not  its  equal  all  the  world  over.  The  sun  was 
powerful  enough  to  draw  the  scent  from  the  pine- 
woods,  and  the  sea-breeze  swept  it  up  toward  the 
mountains.  Lory  waited  alone  in  the  verandah  all 
the  morning.     After  luncheon  the  baron  assisted 


S20  THE  ISLE  OF  UNKEST 

him  back  to  his  long  chair,  and  all  the  party  came 
there  and  drank  coffee.  Coffee  was  one  of  Made- 
moiselle Brun's  solaces  in  life.  "  It  makes  exist- 
ence bearable,"  she  said — "  if  it  is  hot  enough." 
But  she  finished  her  cup  quickly  and  went  away. 
The  baron  was  full  of  business.  He  received  a 
score  of  letters  during  the  day.  At  any  moment 
the  preliminaries  of  peace  might  now  be  signed. 
He  had  not  even  time  for  a  cigarette.  The  baron- 
ess sat  for  some  minutes  looking  at  Lory,  endeav- 
ouring to  make  him  meet  her  shrewd  eyes ;  but  he 
Avas  looking  out  over  the  plain  of  Les  Arcs.  Denise 
had  not  sat  down,  but  was  standing  rather  rest- 
lessly at  the  edge  of  the  verandah  near  the  helio- 
trope which  clambered  up  the  supports.  She  had 
picked  a  piece  of  the  delicate  flower  and  was  idly 
smelling  it. 

At  last  the  baroness  rose  and  walked  away  with- 
out any  explanation  at  all.  After  a  few  minutes, 
which  passed  slowly  in  silence,  Denise  turned  and 
came  slowly  toward  Lory.  The  chair  had  never 
been  occupied.  She  sat  down  and  looked  away 
from  him.  Her  face,  still  delicately  sunburnt,  was 
flushed.  Then  she  turned,  and  her  eyes  as  they 
met  his  were  stricken  with  fear. 

"  I  did  not  understand,"  she  said.  And  she  must 
have  been  referring  to  their  conversation  in  that 
same  spot  months  before.  She  was  either  pro- 
foundly ignorant  of  the  world  or  profoundly  indif- 
ferent to  it.  She  ought,  of  course,  to  have  made 
some  safe  remark  about  the  weather.     She  ought 


THE  BEGINNING  AND  THE  END    321 

to  have  distrusted  Lory.  But  he  seemed  to  know 
her  meaning  without  any  difficulty. 

"  I  think  a  great  many  people  never  understand, 
mademoiselle." 

"  It  has  taken  me  a  long  time — nearly  four 
months,"  said  Denise,  reflectively.  "  But  I  under- 
stood quite  suddenly  at  Bastia — when  the  soldiers 
passed  the  notary's  office.  I  understood  then  what 
life  is  and  what  it  is  meant  to  be." 

Lory  looked  up  at  her  for  a  moment. 

"  That  is  because  you  are  nearer  heaven  than  I 
am,"  he  said. 

"But  it  was  you  who  taught  me,  not  heaven," 
said  Denise.  "  You  said — well,  you  remember  what 
you  said,  perhaps — and  then  immediately  after  you 
denied  me  the  first  thing  I  asked  you.  You  knew 
what  was  right,  and  I  did  not.  You  have  always 
known  what  was  right,  and  have  always  done  it. 
I  see  that  now  as  I  look  back.  So  I  have  learnt 
my  lesson,  you  see."  She  concluded  with  a  grave 
smile.  Life  is  full  of  gravity,  but  love  is  the  gravest 
part  of  it. 

"  Not  from  me,"  persisted  Lory. 

"  Yes,  from  you.  Suppose  you  had  done  what  I 
asked  you.  Suppose  you  had  not  gone  to  the  war 
again,  what  would  have  become  of  our  lives  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  Lory,  "  we  have  both  to 
learn  from  each  other.  Perhaps  it  is  a  long  lesson 
and  will  take  all  our  lives.  I  think  we  are  only  be- 
ginning it.  And  perhaps  I  opened  the  book  when  I 
told  you  that  I  loved  you,  here  in  the  verandah ! " 


322  THE  ISLE  OF  UNEEST 

Denise  turned  and  looked  at  him  with  a  smile 
full  of  pity,  and  touched  with  that  contempt  which 
women  sometimes  bestow  upon  men  for  under- 
standing so  little  of  life. 

"  Mon  Dieu ! "  she  said,  "  I  loved  you  long  before 
that." 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  the  distant  Esterelles 
— those  low  and  lonesome  mountains  clad  from  foot 
to  summit  in  pine — when  Mademoiselle  Brun  came 
out  into  the  garden.  She  had  to  pass  across  the 
verandah,  and  instinctively  turned  to  look  toward 
that  end  of  it  where  de  Vasselot  had  come  a  second 
time  to  lie  in  the  sun  and  heal  his  wounds — a  man 
who  had  fought  a  good  fight. 

Denise  was  holding  out  a  spray  of  heliotrope  to- 
ward Lory  and  he  had  taken,  not  the  flower,  but 
her  hand :  and  thus  without  a  word  and  uncon- 
sciously they  told  their  whole  story  to  made- 
moiselle. 

The  little  old  woman  walked  on  without  showing 
that  she  had  seen  and  understood.  She  was  not  an 
expansive  person. 

She  sat  down  at  the  corner  of  the  lowest  terrace 
and  with  blinking  eyes  stared  across  the  great  plain 
of  Les  Arcs,  where  north  and  south  meet,  where 
the  palm  tree  and  the  pine  grow  side  by  side, 
toward  the  Esterelles  and  the  setting  sun.  The  sky 
was  clear,  but  for  a  few  little  puffs  of  cloud  Ioav 
down  toward  the  west,  like  a  flock  of  sheep  ready 
to  go  home,  waiting  for  the  gate  to  open. 

Mademoiselle's  thin  lips  were  moving  as  if  she 


THE  BEGmmNG  AND  THE  END    323 

were  whispering  to  the  God  whom  she  served  with 
such  a  remarkable  paucity  of  words.  It  may  have 
been  that  she  was  muttering  a  sort  of  grim  Nunc 
Dimittis — she  who  had  seen  so  many  wars.  "  Now 
lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace." 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


!  :•  M  3 1 1985 


Form  L9-Series4939 


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